But when I open my mouth, I struggle for words.
What could I possibly say?
“Chicken,” I croak, “left too soon. Too young.
“It doesn’t feel fair.
“You were such a presence, drove me utterly mad. But even when we fought, I always felt steadier knowing you were there. I looked up to you. You were always so dramatic, from your escapades with penguins and fake horses to how confidently you dress down rude strangers.
“I wanted to be just like you. So I turned to acting. To keep your spirit alive in me.”
My eyes sting and my smile wobbles. “I wish I’d said more when I had the chance, told you how much you meant, how much I learned from you.
“I wish more I’d never...” I close my eyes.
Trent shifts closer, a wall of comfort at my side.
I swallow. “But I know, even if no one else does, you’d forgive me. Because... you always did. You always did. It was your biggest show of love for me.”
Sniffs circle the coffin.
John’s voice has a whine in it. “This Chicken’s making me cry.”
Grandpa’s blinking hard, too. Damp visible around his eyes. “Music,” he croaks, stabbing at his phone. Suddenly, ‘The Humans Are Dead’ by Flight of the Conchords blasts across the paddock, and all the oldies are shrieking to change it, quick. The shrieks dissolve into laughs, and the music plays on until Grandpa figures out how to change it to ‘Always Look on The Bright Side of Life’.
As it plays, a van trundles up the driveway, spots us, and parks.
They call out, “Order for Ika?”
“Is here good for food?” I ask, and Grandpa slaps a hand on my shoulders.
“It’s a wake. Food is welcome.”
I call out, “Set her up here.”
Two guys open the back of their van and unload the haul.
“You’re gonna love this, Grandpa,” I say, smiling.
The men plant a huge spit-roasting grill before us and whack on a line of skewered chickens.
The music cuts. Silence.
Everyone stares.
“Dude,” John mutters, “that’s dark.”
harakeke (flax) growing by the shore
Resilient, woven into something strong.
Later, we’re eating the chicken.
Waste not, want not,Grandpa said.
Chairs have been dragged out from the barn, tables set up; salad, bread and butter, plates peppering chequered tablecloths.
The oldies are still snorting as they rip into their rotisserie chicken, and I groan down to my plate. Trent, beside me, is an amused hum.
