He is here

In the week my brother died, there was a storm in the universe.

- Charlotte Grimshaw

Giant flares erupted from the sun and a pink aurora lit up the Auckland night. I woke to a smell of burning. The sky had turned hard, cloudless blue; the days shone with photographic clarity.

I swam in a full tide at Cheltenham. I thought, my brother should be here. The horizon traced a sharp, turquoise line and Rangitoto Island looked strangely close. The sky was an aquamarine skin, the air was still and the sea was glassy. The colours seemed mineral, chemical, intense. There was a lurid wash over the world. The universe was blazing.

The last time I visited my brother in Wellington, the wind blew open the door and his papers whirled around us. I thought of Katherine Mansfield's story The Wind Blows. It's a vivid account of a brother and sister. I went home and wrote about him.

We texted and talked on the phone, and during our last conversation, he told me he was cooking. He'd made kahawai with salsa, and date scones. He was going to share the scones with his neighbour.