XII

Mine is the constant shape of absence at family funerals. I can’t make it to Gran’s funeral either. After the church service, villagers and friends are invited to my uncle’s for dinner and red wine. If anyone is surprised about the format for the solemn gathering, they don’t let on. When it came to Gran, people expected to be surprised; anything less would have been disappointing. I hear it’s a send-off worthy of her generous spirit. Alone at my student flat thousands of miles away, I arrange candles in a mandala on the floor. In lieu of flamenco, Portuguese fado serves as an appropriate stand-in. Mafalda Vega’s and Ana Sofia Varela’s soulful voices are packed with sadness and loneliness as they tell of destiny, of love lost at sea. I don’t understand enough Portuguese, but I float on the drama, the lisps of promise. Years later, when I finally have my own family in New Zealand, when dual citizenship has allowed me to put down roots in both hemispheres, I find myself surrounded by individuals who wouldn’t have a clue about who I am, or what shaped me. There are no grandparents left to introduce. No evident hooks for my story, beyond ‘When I was little’, which is awfully close to ‘Once upon a time’.