A bunch of Kiwifruit.

When the profound agony of hearts
being constantly stretched
the width of a continent,
and the depth of a Sea
are soothed by the soft laughter
of a mother’s voice,
coupled with a father’s jokes
down a scratchy telephone line,
or a photo of a sibling’s kitten-come-cat
sitting on a new fence post,
in a different back yard
to the one we used to play in
amidst the Kiwifruit vines
the living room of my imagination
is full again.

Packed to the brim like
a mid-90’s Christmas on the farm,
a piping hot turkey,
and lukewarm beans
followed by  trifle
sliced, jammed, and iced
with more precision,
and lard,
than an Olympic synchronised swim team.

Like mornings with a blue
Speedo flutter board
before class in winter
because “I haaaaate going to
Emeil Parmers Swimschool!
He’s got cockroaches in the pool
and my hair won’t fit his swimming caps!”

Or almost having to be surgically removed
from a ballet costume
holding a freshly fallen tooth,
dollar signs rolling over my eyes
awaiting a letter from my own personal
Tooth Fairy, and enough money
to put a deposit on a new (doll’s) house.
Oblivious to the mischievous footsteps
of a bored brother
climbing the roof of St Oswald’s.

Like a drive to the Airport to buy the paper,
or the tallest tree on Mount Albert Road
each of us remains connected to that vine,
the one that took the longest to saw down,
and draws us back to the trampoline for one last bounce
after dinner while mum and dad’s  full stomach’s
turn at the window sill, waiting to grab a bucket
or a band-aid
to mend our grazes in the living room,
where still, we go to sit.

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