Market in Matakana

We live far from Matakana— Under the car tires highway concrete and asphalt roads to this town would groan: 79 kilometers could be 81 or at times 82, like when the heavens discern there is not much need for too much sun on earth. This Saturday it rains even in summer and the roads gleam like slick nautilus chambers. Foliage from bursts of trees and shrubberies by the window dense— the light behind them could be the evading eyes of gods we have forgotten to pray to for warmer days and other necessities: Food on the table, a good laugh, stronger legs. We check the brochure again, read about that public toilet that took seven years to complete: two separate stalls that resemble one another, connected by a singular stare as if chained to the eternity of their tauntings: “You are stuck with me. There’s nowhere to go.” The rains come and go. The road to Matakana have several ends, but like many other roads before this, we prefer one that ends adequately, such as this artery that leads to the heart of a market where honey from bees that live in cliffside hives are sold, beer crafted in a basement, also wine extracted from feijoas pollinated by silvereyes of the south and blackbirds of the north. of the season, but the sign by the berry stall says “Vintage Market Every Sunday.” But it’s a Saturday, not a petal for sale in sight, as if we need reminders of the chances we have missed and the length of the roads we have taken. We walk back to our car, turn the GPS on, in search of another market. Always, there will be more roads to take before