Fragments of childhood

A Casio keyboard

Sat gathering dust In the rest home lounge.

Fingering it, My mind wandered... * Daydreams of Jelly tip ice blocks

at Woodend, Driving from Bluff To Cape Reinga. Fire warning signs Flax weaving. Typical Pākehā kid. Overseas, it was different. Making fast friendships, Attempting the language Until they could follow Our train of thought. We were visitors But we weren't American: That was always a novelty. * Biondi were rare. Italians have olive skin, Like most Mediterraneans. Equality was somewhat novel In Milano: a city (still) in thrall to Il Duce,

or his successor, Berlusconi.

The President of Italy owned broadcasting networks and a Serie A calcio team: Our arch-rivals, AC Milan. Corruption was endemic, And the bureaucracy Orwellian. The carabinieri had guns, and looked like the mobsters with their black balaclavas.

Street music

Everywhere we went. Always we: My twin and I never spent More than a week apart.

The subways were good: Milan didn't trumpet them, But they were pretty thorough, Complete with buskers and homeless. Homeless people everywhere. That's what I recall of Europe.

Even the local pizzeria was mind-blowing.

The mozzarella was so much thicker and better. *

Then we came back to Aotearoa, Nobody spoke the language, and wouldn't know a tortellini from a Vermicelli. The memories are all translated in my mind, Even though I can follow Italian fairly well. Sometimes, when I'm making music, they Come alive again, in that realm beyond words. Now, how does that compare to the Kurds?

Amanda Riddell

January 2025