Member-only story
Do We Grieve Intertwined or Alone?
A braided essay
In New Zealand Maori culture you’re taught to introduce yourself by naming the place, mountain, and body of water significant to you. For me, that body of water is the braided rivers of Canterbury.
Braided rivers are unique in the world but in Canterbury, where I was raised, they are the blue veins weaving in and out, tracing the land. They run from the mountains to the plains, trickling life into every crack and crevice; connecting coast to coast; gathering us in between their breathlessly cold, clear fingers.
Their beautiful Maori names shape my childhood and my memories: Waimakariri — cold rushing water; Rangitata — low sky; Waitaki — weeping waters. These are the rivers that shape my home.
“Malia is dead,” my stepson reports in his matter of fact 8-year old boy way over the phone. My mind races. Why is my stepson ringing about our cat? Why isn’t it my husband? Perhaps he has it wrong. We’re all on separate vacations this year: my step-kids at home with their dad, my oldest and I on a shopping trip in the city, and my 10-year-old staying with her cousin.
“Can you put Dad on, please?”
“What?”
“Dad. Put Dad on.” I struggle to keep the panic out of my voice. The mall is noisy and I practically have to shout…
