LITTLE ANGELS

Little Angels

One bitterly cold winter morning,
After a week of torrential rain,
I had to get out,
I had enough of cooping in the house.

Along the picturesque seaside road of Tamaki Drive I drove.
The sun beams were filtering through the overcast sky.
Puhutukawa trees line the drive.
These New Zealand native trees bloom in summer.
The whole tree is covered in crimson,
Aptly giving its name, the New Zealand Christmas tree.

But today, in the dull bitter gloomy cold,
Their flowers are gone.
It is as if they are wailing their mournful song.
For whom do they sing?

Every summer, I drive along this drive 101 times.
The sea is full of bathers & wind surfers,
The footpath full of walkers and joggers,
Cars line the whole drive.

But today,
It is as if it’s Robert Frost’s poem,
Two roads meet and I took the one less travelled by.
Where are the cars?
Where are the walkers and the joggers?
Where are the bathers and the windsurfers?

On my left, the lush green grass looks like a sheet of emerald.
The sand is studded with sea shells swept up by the waves
In the deep turquoise bay,
Yachts bob with their mast standing stripped of their sails.

I look to my right,
I see the empty playing field,
I sigh at the deserted playground.

I venture further.
I see a Maori church with its sloping roof to the ground.
It reminds me of a Maori Marae.
On the closed door is a sign,
“Welcome to the Okahu Bay church.”
A wall has Maori words I don’t understand.
Beneath them are the words “LEST WE FORGET”
A big bell stands high at the tower,
For whom does the bell toll?

I look around the little cemetery.
The ground is soggy wet.
The damness soaks through my feet.
I am undeterred.

A certain kind of graves attract my fascination,
The bell in my heart is tolling.
A still born,
A day one boy born a day before his twin,
They both die the day the twin is born.
A five year old girl died in a fire.
Babies, toddlers, young children, teens.
All of them snatched away,
Prematurely from their mum’s blossoms.

For these Angels, I cry in my heart,
For their mums, I shed a tear.
It is not right,
It is cruel.
It should be children burying their mums,
Not Vice Versa.
Fate had dealt them an unfair hand.

I now sit on the bench facing the sea.
I write for posterity.
Morose and silent,
The cold air is numbing my face,
The freezing breeze is sweeping my hair.
I look beyond the break water,
I see the big ships coming to port.
Their horns are blaring.
For whom are the horns blaring?

My heart is heavy,
My face is crestfallen.
Because I am one of these mums,
I too, laid my little baby in a hole in the ground.
He too, is lying in the freezing soggy dirt.
Yes, I have an angel.
Only a mum who has an angel will understand another.

I used to be highly critical,
I used to be self righteous,
I used to condemn mums who terminate their pregnancies.
Not anymore, I have many friends who made that painful decision.
How am I to judge?
Aren’t their hurt as severe as my pain.
No, their babies just became angels in a fast forward route.

Our babies are angels
They look down from above.
They whisper quietly.
“Hang in there, mum, some day we will meet again.”

PEOPLE SAY THE GREATEST GRIEF IS A MOTHER'S GRIEF. I KNOW, BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN THERE