FROM THE EDITOR

The car was weighed down but I felt light as, driving out of Tamaki on December 29. I was headed for Opoutere. Whanau. The fold. I could not get out of town fast enough. The salt and sand would wear down the ordeals of the year, like pumice to feet. The heat of the sun would force down the car windows. My hair would fly out and tangle. Pick a song, I said. Teenagers, making their own playlists and memories, independent of me. But their songs are anchored in sounds of home. Home, Avantdale Bowling Club. Talking Heads. This is the Day. Fly Like An Eagle. The Beautiful Ones. They don’t even know how beautiful they are. Expecting to Fly. At midnight on December 31, the first two text messages I got were from them, including a generous contingent of exclamation marks. “Happy New Year Mum !!!!!! ” Not rioting in Whangamata then, well that’s good.

Renee and I lay on the sand — the hard-packed sand where the midges don’t get you. We looked up at the sky and she said in her dreamy voice, “Do you follow Iman on Insta? She’s cool. She just posted, ‘I’m staying in bed, it’s too peopley out there!’” It wasn’t where we were. It was just right. Empty enough. Full enough.

I clicked “follow” on Iman. I’m not big on platitudes to print and frame for the wall. But, among a whole lot of hot photos with her and David Bowie, she’d posted this: “It’s easy to see the beginnings of things and harder to see the ends.” But when the end came, I lightly flipped the bird to the year just gone and I texted the beautiful ones, “Happy New Year. I love you so much.”

Welcome to the first issue of Canvas for 2022. Happy New Year.