A tale

So, it is just me and Kouro left to fend for ourselves when the familyleaves to pay their respect to the royal family at the Hamiltonpalace.

Kouro with his braided long hair reminds me of a wizenedIndian chief. I am not the first to make this observation. He couldappear intimidating for his daunting size. However, I know the better.I remember two amusing occasions, one, catching Kouro bunny hoppingafter his mokapuna "granddaughter" and another stumbling into himcolliding through the doorway a flustered boyish grin on his face andeyes filled with delight, sticks and leaves strewn in his hair anddown the back of his fleece, apparently he had been chasing wild boarwith his dogs in the bush. On top of these observations, he hasexhibited gestures evident of immense consideration andthoughtfulness.

On typical nights past, we just band by the fire and Kouro tells meabout how you can tell the type of wood by the way it burns or the proximity of a wild boar by the different traces it leaves at different season. Sometimes he talks about his adventure tourism venture and the interesting array of visitors over the years including native americans on a spiritual pursuit and German building apprentices who overused concrete. I recount the places I visit during the day in search of kite materials, some energetically strange. To the last bit, he smilesknowingly, not commenting much further than saying that I stumble ontoa tapu area and something about prophets. Other than that, kites don't usually make it into conversation.

Most nights, we all juststare at the fire for hours after dinner until sleep starts todescend; whereby I bury the embers the way Kouro has shown me so they' restill good in the morning. Tonight, I am occupied with weaving.Tonight Kouro seem lost in thought. He cannot sleep and misses hiswife. I am criss-crossing flax around raupo, making progress on themanu taratahi by the manuka burning fire. I am comfortable in the silence.

Kouro voice breaks through it. He says he misses his mom. This confession takes me by surprise...images of Maoris as fierce warriors trumpet through my head. My brief time with theTu Hoe have already overrided many preconceptions. I pause my weavingto give Kouro my full attention. And he begins to tell the story ofhis mom, of how she only had one good arm, he demonstrated how sheplayed the guitar strumming with one and manipulating the frozen oneinto chord positions on the bridge. How as a kid, he use to sleepbeside her holding his mum\'s paralyzed cold arm in hopes of keeping itwarm.He had a song he wanted to dedicate to her. He started to sing andstrum the guitar on his lap, beautifully.

Speechless, I let it be,... before trying to inadequately express tohim how beautiful, so touchingly beautiful that was.I listened intently as he continued to talk about the injustices tohis mom, how she died so young, so strong and stubborn, and how tothis day he still misses her. He\'s never stop. I love my mom, he saidsimply.

I sat in silence afterwards, still feeling deeply touched by the poetry of his words so full of feeling from his heart. I felt tremendously honored but grately pitied that there was not more others around to hear or some mechanical device that could capture a story told so eloquently.

The dedication and love he felt for his mom I also felt for my mom. So I began to tell him her story, her struggle and her journey home.

By the end of it all, we were both in tears staring at the fire. The tears quickly turnd to tears mixed with sniffling laughter upon realizing how silly we looked.

I often think back to this moment with absolute amusement and a genuine warmness of heart. Raw. Open. Beautiful. The feelings wrought forth, I will never forget it.