Rewi

Te Ao Hou, September 1967, Page 14

Rewi by Margaret Hapi ‘Rewi's dead,’ says Sarah. I stop peeling the potato knowing in my mind it's true even though the flat tone of her voice does not differentiate between a query or a statement. I look at her dumbly. ‘The hearse is there,’ she says. My body has already filled with the nauseous chill. My life has not yet experienced deep grief and my emotions cannot cope with death. Later Judy comes over. She has been crying but grief suits her and she wears it like a new gown. ‘We'll go up to the house after tea,’ she says. I'm ashamed. I have an overpowering urge to be in the house now, unrelated as I am to the deceased, to see and hear what is being said. What does it feel like when your husband dies? Is grief at death a pain as though part of one's body is severed? Or is it more sadness and remorse as in an unaccomplished task? The house is already filled with relations, and the air is heavy with the emotion that only the very old Kuias generate as they renew their wails with each arrival of new mourners. We kiss the widow who cries. I stand awkward and embarrassed at obvious emotion as I always do. They are naked before my gaze. Where can I look. There is worse to come. I should have known this would come. I can't. I can't. ‘We'll go in now,’ says my husband and puts out his hand to take me to the bedroom where the body lies. I panic. I have never seen a dead body, and I'm terrified that there will be a smell. Not the rotten stench of animal decay. I know that smell. I'm frightened that human death will smell so horrible and unforgettably cloying that I will never free my nostrils of it should I enter that room. But there is no smell. Rewi lies still in his body shell. His skin is taut and young and he looks very much at peace. I am quite overcome with relief. ‘Hullo Rewi,’ I say softly. I want to talk to him. ‘How you doin' sweetheart,’ he used to say to me as he wandered in the door of our bach. ‘Fine’, I would shout. He was slightly deaf He would wait a moment or two to let his dark suit, polished shoes and tie make their full impact before saying redundantly, ‘Gotta go to de tangi for whatsisname’, or ‘Gotta big land meeting on today’. Both were important functions which punetuated his life at regular intervals, and for these he borrowed Sam's suit. This always proved awkward if Sam had a formal function which coincided with Rewi's. ‘Well’, says Sam, ‘there'll be no argument about the suit tomorrow. I've beaten the old man to it this time.’ No one misses the warmth of memory in this statement and the laughing is free. I remember the way I laughed at his reminiscence about his younger days. ‘Too right—walk all the way from Maketu for a dance here in Rotorua. Silly blinkin’ kids.’ He'd pause, and smile, his knotted fingers struggling with the Park Drive shreds which defied all his attempts to roll them neatly within the paper. He never seemed to notice that, and when he smoked, stray pieces often stuck unheeded to his lips where they dried and eventually slipped off when an appropriate facial expression moved them. I was always consumed with a mad desire to pick off all the half dried ones which I could almost feel on my own face. Next morning his mokupunas say solemnly, ‘Koro's asleep in the box.’ ‘A big box,’ says Carol, solemnly indicating

with her hands it's at least a couple of miles long. I have to laugh. ‘Where are they taking her?’ asks Terryboy. ‘Well, you know where Maketu Nanny is don't you?’ ‘Oh yes,’ they all nod knowingly. ‘She's in the ground at Maketu.’ ‘Under all the dirt,’ adds Carol. ‘Well, they're going to take Rewi down for a mate for her.’ ‘Oh!’ Again solemn nods and sighs. The problem has been solved logically, and they run off, brown legs disappearing into the yellow summer grasses. The sun is warm on my face. It's a fine day for the tangi.