and then there’s the burial and then the name is written, the date
of the birth, the date of the death, the little message of love, on the white cross. Cremate? What is this nonsense?
“How are the kids and I going to pray on you if you’re not in the grave? I can’t cremate you, Pito.
Think
a bit!”
“Materena, I tell you, don’t you bury me. If you bury me I’m not going to be happy. You cremate me and then you put a bit
of my ashes in a box for you and the kids.”
Materena is sad now. In her opinion, when you get cremated it’s like you’ve never existed. Whereas with the grave, your kids
can come visit you, and your grandkids, their kids, and on and on. There’s proof that you were born and died.
She visits her great-great-grandmother sometimes. She sits on her grave and says
iaorana.
Well, you can talk to the ashes, but it’s not the same as talking on the grave, all the while weeding and clearing up the
sand.
Maybe it is, Materena doesn’t know. She’s never talked to ashes before. And, the box, it can be dropped, broken, lost. And
who is going to keep the box of Pito’s ashes after she dies? There are three kids.
She’s not going to cremate Pito—
ah non.
She’s going to bury him, and she’s going to bury him in Faa’a. That’s her final decision. She best write the funeral arrangements
and put them in her special box for the kids to act upon.
And now that the matter is resolved, Materena is going to sleep.
“Materena,” Pito says.
She doesn’t answer.
“Swear to me that you’re going to cremate me.”
She’s not hearing anything—she’s asleep. But Pito is not having that comedy. He gets out of bed and switches the light on,
and Materena covers her face with the pillow.
Pito snatches the pillow away. “You’re going to swear to me that when I die, you’re going to cremate me like I said. I never
thought about all of this, eh? You got me thinking. And I’m telling you again. I don’t want to be buried, okay?”
Pito looks so serious about his cremation. Materena nods slowly. “Okay, Pito. I’m going to cremate you—don’t you worry.”
Frying Pan
I t is Mama Roti’s birthday tomorrow, three days before Pito’s birthday, and she wants a present.
She’s been hinting about it for the past week—in fact, the past month.
“Twenty-nine days until the day I was born.”
“Twenty days until the day I was born.”
“Five days until the day I was born.”
She has to get a present on her birthday, otherwise she won’t speak to you for days. She’ll sulk. Mama Roti likes it when
her kids remember the day she was born. She often says, “All those years I wiped your bottom—you better give me a present
on my birthday.”
She’s not fussy about the present as long as there’s something for her to unwrap and there’s a card with
Happy birthday, Mama
written on it. She’s got boxes full of birthday cards.
Usually, Materena chooses the present and she wraps it in nice colorful birthday paper. But this year, for no particular reason,
Pito wants to be involved. He wants to do more than write
Happy birthday, Mama, from your son Pito, Materena, and the kids.
So Pito and Materena are going to Euromarché to buy Mama Roti her present. And Materena has a few ideas.
She suggests a hand-printed pareu for Mama Roti to wear on special occasions. But Pito doesn’t approve, because, according
to him, his mama has got enough pareus—hundreds, as a matter of fact.
“Ah, you counted?”
“There’s pareus all over the house,” Pito says.
And apparently Mama Roti sometimes even uses a pareu for mopping. So Materena proposes a coupon for a manicure, with a couple
of nail polish bottles.
Pito gives Materena a funny look. “Mama? A manicure?”
“Or a brooch, a brooch is nice. Not a big one, a small one, like a bird or a flower.”
Pito grimaces, and Materena realizes that the search for Mama Roti’s present isn’t going to be an easy task
of the birth, the date of the death, the little message of love, on the white cross. Cremate? What is this nonsense?
“How are the kids and I going to pray on you if you’re not in the grave? I can’t cremate you, Pito.
Think
a bit!”
“Materena, I tell you, don’t you bury me. If you bury me I’m not going to be happy. You cremate me and then you put a bit
of my ashes in a box for you and the kids.”
Materena is sad now. In her opinion, when you get cremated it’s like you’ve never existed. Whereas with the grave, your kids
can come visit you, and your grandkids, their kids, and on and on. There’s proof that you were born and died.
She visits her great-great-grandmother sometimes. She sits on her grave and says
iaorana.
Well, you can talk to the ashes, but it’s not the same as talking on the grave, all the while weeding and clearing up the
sand.
Maybe it is, Materena doesn’t know. She’s never talked to ashes before. And, the box, it can be dropped, broken, lost. And
who is going to keep the box of Pito’s ashes after she dies? There are three kids.
She’s not going to cremate Pito—
ah non.
She’s going to bury him, and she’s going to bury him in Faa’a. That’s her final decision. She best write the funeral arrangements
and put them in her special box for the kids to act upon.
And now that the matter is resolved, Materena is going to sleep.
“Materena,” Pito says.
She doesn’t answer.
“Swear to me that you’re going to cremate me.”
She’s not hearing anything—she’s asleep. But Pito is not having that comedy. He gets out of bed and switches the light on,
and Materena covers her face with the pillow.
Pito snatches the pillow away. “You’re going to swear to me that when I die, you’re going to cremate me like I said. I never
thought about all of this, eh? You got me thinking. And I’m telling you again. I don’t want to be buried, okay?”
Pito looks so serious about his cremation. Materena nods slowly. “Okay, Pito. I’m going to cremate you—don’t you worry.”
Frying Pan
I t is Mama Roti’s birthday tomorrow, three days before Pito’s birthday, and she wants a present.
She’s been hinting about it for the past week—in fact, the past month.
“Twenty-nine days until the day I was born.”
“Twenty days until the day I was born.”
“Five days until the day I was born.”
She has to get a present on her birthday, otherwise she won’t speak to you for days. She’ll sulk. Mama Roti likes it when
her kids remember the day she was born. She often says, “All those years I wiped your bottom—you better give me a present
on my birthday.”
She’s not fussy about the present as long as there’s something for her to unwrap and there’s a card with
Happy birthday, Mama
written on it. She’s got boxes full of birthday cards.
Usually, Materena chooses the present and she wraps it in nice colorful birthday paper. But this year, for no particular reason,
Pito wants to be involved. He wants to do more than write
Happy birthday, Mama, from your son Pito, Materena, and the kids.
So Pito and Materena are going to Euromarché to buy Mama Roti her present. And Materena has a few ideas.
She suggests a hand-printed pareu for Mama Roti to wear on special occasions. But Pito doesn’t approve, because, according
to him, his mama has got enough pareus—hundreds, as a matter of fact.
“Ah, you counted?”
“There’s pareus all over the house,” Pito says.
And apparently Mama Roti sometimes even uses a pareu for mopping. So Materena proposes a coupon for a manicure, with a couple
of nail polish bottles.
Pito gives Materena a funny look. “Mama? A manicure?”
“Or a brooch, a brooch is nice. Not a big one, a small one, like a bird or a flower.”
Pito grimaces, and Materena realizes that the search for Mama Roti’s present isn’t going to be an easy task
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