summer smells

raindrops on hot tarseal

basil in the kitchen

fresh mown grass

line dried laundry

exhaust fumes

 

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November 2 - Whakapapa

There's a little indentation just below your nose. It runs vertically from the middle of your upper lip to the bottom of your nose.

It's put there before you are born, by an angel touching its finger across your lips. It's to stop you talking and letting all the adults know you know so much.

Sometimes Matthew looks so wise.

Maori call it whakapapa. I guess you could translate it as something like lineage. It's your history. It carries your mana. What's bred in the bone. Seed spilt over countless generations, taken in, nurtured in the womb. All joined, carrying a history, a weight.

No wonder babies need to be shushed.

Matthew has a unique whakapapa. So wonderful to think of Germans arriving in Maine, of English landing in New Zealand, leading, eventually, to a chance meeting in London and a conception in Wellington.

What's bred in the bone.

Matthew is of good stock I think. Whakapapa is a precious thing to pass on. On a night like this, when I think about it, there's so much I want to give him.

 

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