Backstroke in a Mud Puddle

I am three and I am running away. I am running away from my brother and my sister and into the water falling from the sky.

They wear togs. My sisters are dark blue like the moana when there’s about to be thunder. The frills at the hips are wavy shades of sunshine. My brother wears shorts of some sort. His hair is long and deepest black. Bits are stuck to his cheeks and tuna-like tails trail over his shoulders and back.

I don’t wear any togs. I’m in the nuddy running away. My mouth is wide open and I’m screaming out delight. My curls are still short because I’m three. They stick to my forehead and the back of my neck; they bounce up again when I shake the water away. I’m copying the neighbour’s dog, twist and shake.

Then, I’m turning around and I’m running back. Running past my brother and past my sister, past the squeals they make, and into the rain. 

In the middle of the lawn, we’ve made a sloppy, spongey, brown puddle. I stop in the puddle. I am three and I roll around in it like piggies do.

My brother and my sister are running towards me, very fast. They slide into the mud like rugby players. We splash ourselves more than we splash each other. My brother pretends to do a backstroke. My sister makes a face mask like grown-ups and monsters do.

Mother is calling us in. Me first, I hear her say my name again and again.

‘Matariki…Matariki!’ 

But I am three, so I am running away from Mother, listening to my name and licking the rain.

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Aine Whelan-Kopa is Ngāpuhi me Ngāti Hine and lives in Tāmaki Makaurau. She is completing a Master of Indigenous Studies at The University of Auckland and working on her first poetry collection.