Chapter 30 Wake #2
John sings the coroner’s lines affirming that she’s sincerely dead.
And I rock on my heels as the oldies crowd around the bench and the nīkau tree and me holding the coffin.
“We gather today in sorrow, but also in gratitude,” Grandpa says solemnly. The box sits on the grass with the rest of us circled around it, heads lowered. Music off, for now.
“Gratitude for this life, and for the ways we’ve been touched. A wake is a time to speak, to listen, and to remember. Is there anyone who wishes to share a story or a few words?”
I peek out the corner of my eye to Trent, who then looks to Grandpa as if to say, shouldn’t you start?
Grandpa clears his throat and lifts a hand. “I shall begin.
“Chicken was, without question, a . . . top bird. A lover of mischief and spontaneity, who used any opportunity to rock ‘n roll.”
Trent and I exchange a raised brow and listen on with growing amusement as Grandpa eulogises, having far too much fun keeping a straight face while he’s at it.
“Chicken was hard of sight but sharp of hearing, particularly when someone mentioned biscuits or rumours not meant for public consumption. Chicken knew more gossip than the entire bowling club and the street WhatsApp combined, and shared none of it responsibly.
“Chicken was a pillar of the community, mostly because standing in the middle of the road until noticed was a personal hobby.
“Music sense? Impeccable. A dancing flirt who ruffled quite a few feathers in their time. Brave in the face of adversity, stubborn in the face of reason, and utterly unbothered by authority, Chicken set the standard.
“Chicken loved deeply, complained frequently, and had an uncanny ability to appear exactly when everyone thought the coast was clear.
“And of course,” Grandpa pauses for dramatic effect, “Chicken possessed a remarkable talent for winning at cards, especially when others weren’t looking. Some might call that cheating. I call it strategy.”
He lets the silence linger, nods sagely. “In short, Chicken lived a life of reckless charm, questionable ethics, and undeniable success. We could all learn a little from that example.”
John, Bev, and the other oldies all murmur. “Yes, we love Chicken. This chicken will be sorely missed.”
And another audible mutter, “I’ll have a chance to win at cards. Good riddance to Chicken.”
“Heartless bastard,” Grandpa says on a snort. “Your turn to talk about Chicken, John.”
John clears his throat. “Congrats, Chicken. No need to worry about the lawn anymore.
“Let’s get a few things straight. Chicken was not perfect. Chicken never fixed that leaky tap. Never returned half any borrowed tools. And would even eat the last ginger kiss in front of his grandkids.
“Chicken was exceptionally committed though. To naps, bad jokes, and second helpings.
“Chicken leaves behind a long list of unfinished projects, an impressive collection of loose screws, and a legacy of questionable decisions.
“To Chicken’s children: sorry about the inheritance, turns out ‘investing in vintage car parts’ wasn’t the financial strategy I thought it was.
“To Chicken’s mates: if any of you still owe this Chicken beer, pour it over the grave.
“And to Chicken’s dear friends and family, Chicken loved you all, even if Chicken pretended not to hear you calling for help moving furniture.”
The oldies snicker. And then, one by one, the rest give speeches about ‘Chicken’, ending with Bev’s “Life’s short, love’s hard, and laughter’s the best engine to get you to the end.”
When it’s Trent’s turn, he clears his throat.
“Chicken and I didn’t always see eye to eye. We definitely had words with one another, and there was an unspoken rivalry over who Grandpa liked best.”
I swallow thickly.
He’s careful with his words. Chicken might be about himself, but I know he’s really speaking to Ika.
“But no matter how much we chirped at one another, it never lasted long. Sooner or later we’d be hanging out in the yard again; we always knew how to forgive and move on.
“Chicken had a way of turning anger into laughter, of making things lighter just by being around. I wish I’d looked out better, stepped in more, made sure Chicken knew how much love was there, always had been.
“That love doesn’t stop now. It’s stitched into our home, our garden, and every bit of kelp I’ve protected at sea.”
My throat is so sore. I want to reach out and squeeze his hand, but drive mine into my pockets instead. My feet shift against the grass, my shadow shifts towards the coffin.
Oldies are humming kind words after Trent’s speech, and glancing at me. My turn.
My turn. Finally. It feels . . . like I’ve waited far too long.
But when I open my mouth, I struggle for words.
What could I possibly say?
“Chicken,” I croak, “left too soon. Too young.
“It doesn’t feel fair.
“You were such a presence, drove me utterly mad. But even when we fought, I always felt steadier knowing you were there. I looked up to you. You were always so dramatic, from your escapades with penguins and fake horses to how confidently you dress down rude strangers.
“I wanted to be just like you. So I turned to acting. To keep your spirit alive in me.”
My eyes sting and my smile wobbles. “I wish I’d said more when I had the chance, told you how much you meant, how much I learned from you.
“I wish more I’d never . . .” I close my eyes.
Trent shifts closer, a wall of comfort at my side.
I swallow. “But I know, even if no one else does, you’d forgive me. Because . . . you always did. You always did. It was your biggest show of love for me.”
Sniffs circle the coffin.
John’s voice has a whine in it. “This Chicken’s making me cry.”
Grandpa’s blinking hard, too. Damp visible around his eyes.
“Music,” he croaks, stabbing at his phone.
Suddenly, ‘The Humans Are Dead’ by Flight of the Conchords blasts across the paddock, and all the oldies are shrieking to change it, quick.
The shrieks dissolve into laughs, and the music plays on until Grandpa figures out how to change it to ‘Always Look on The Bright Side of Life’.
As it plays, a van trundles up the driveway, spots us, and parks.
They call out, “Order for Ika?”
“Is here good for food?” I ask, and Grandpa slaps a hand on my shoulders.
“It’s a wake. Food is welcome.”
I call out, “Set her up here.”
Two guys open the back of their van and unload the haul.
“You’re gonna love this, Grandpa,” I say, smiling.
The men plant a huge spit-roasting grill before us and whack on a line of skewered chickens.
The music cuts. Silence.
Everyone stares.
“Dude,” John mutters, “that’s dark.”