Anger simmers beneath the surface, directed at a life that was taken far too young, at just 59. This vulnerability forces me to confront my own mortality and question the worth of my life, grappling with the fragility of my own existence.
It is important to recognise grief as a natural process.
There are different stages of grief: remorse, anger, sadness, depression, and acceptance. Over the past week, I have felt all of these emotions, and I accept that my life will never be the same without my sister.
She was unique and our relationship was equally unique.
I know I will move on, and I will pay particular attention to her children and mokopuna. I will do my part to keep my sister’s loving memory alive.
Tangihanga is a beautiful process that allows whānau to gather not only to mourn but also to celebrate the life of a loved one.
Each of us has a role to play in this sacred time. After my sister’s passing, I became part of the whānau pani, the bereaved family, and my focus was on mourning her.
As a brother, I had the responsibility to ensure that the shopping was done, allowing our ringawera (cooks and kitchen hands) to feed the hundreds of visitors who came to pay their respects and assist us in our mourning.
As an uncle, I also had the duty to care for my sister’s children, ensuring they felt consulted, looked after, and knew we were there to support them during the tangi and in the future.
We wanted our beautiful sister to have a beautiful tangihanga, and that’s exactly what happened.
My eldest sister dressed her baby sister in a dress that belonged to our grandmother.
My sister was placed in a casket that we knew she would love, and her eulogy, which is unusual in a Māori setting, was given by someone who knew her well and was able to reflect the vibrancy and larger-than-life persona our sister had.
For those who have not been to a tangihanga, it’s hard to explain exactly what goes on.
Yes, we mourn our departed loved one, but we also celebrate.
We laugh, we cry, we laugh, we cry. We all have equally important roles to play, whether it be feeding our manuhiri, kai karanga (calling our manuhiri onto our marae), or whaikōrero (formal speeches), welcoming guests and talking about our tīpuna and the connection we have as a people.
We have dignified ceremonies, but we also have joy and laughter. If I were a scriptwriter, I could write about what goes on in the whare kai, and it would make for an award-winning comedy.
Don’t get me wrong, readers; my grief is deep and dark. I’ve lost my mum and dad, but losing a sister who was so young and vibrant has hit me and my whānau with unimaginable pain.
What we do have, however, is a shared memory and a commitment to keep our sister’s memory alive. We gathered to mourn, to celebrate and to give one last act of love for our sister - a beautiful tangihanga, as she deserved.
For those who read my columns, you know that I normally write about politics. Politics is only a small part of my life; my whānau are at the very centre of my being.
I have found it very important to share my grief and to have others talk to me about theirs so we can help each other through what is probably the toughest time of my life and, for many of my whānau, the toughest time of their lives.
Let’s talk about grief; let’s not be afraid to grieve, to cry, to laugh, and to show all the emotions that we possibly can. I believe this is an important coping mechanism.
Coming back to the reality of daily life, the bleakness of my grief is all-encompassing. I know that time will heal, but the reality is that my sister, my friend, has gone.
E whiti e te rā, tō atu ki te rua He roimata kei aku kamo e kai riringi nei.
Rest in peace, my dear sister Marjorie. No pain, no more hurt.
You were beloved, and you gave love.
One love, one heart, one destiny. (Bob Marley)
