I tend to get all sentimental when I'm leaving, and I'm going to be leaving soon. It's time for me to start heading in a slightly different direction. It's time for me to let some things go.
Almost a year ago I moved out to this cute little place at Waihi Beach, with it's high wood-paneled ceiling angled upward toward the apex. When the rain comes the water sneaks its way inside, slides down the ceiling and slips onto the carpet or into a bucket.
I reside upstairs, and from the front window I look out into a Totara tree, where the tui’s perform their tricks. Beyond are the Bowentown Heads; they're neither particularly beautiful nor boastful, but they are bound, and I love them for it.
Between these are a bunch of houses, holiday homes and batches mostly. My view extends up the street and I can see when the posties red, rural delivery van arrives, and I rush out with my mail.
Outside there's a small balcony. It came with a picnic table and an orange sun umbrella. I added the pot plants, which are struggling to survive because, unfortunately, I did not inherit my father’s flare for horticulture. This space proved useful during summer. Each Sunday we'd spend time together eating fish and chips and sipping shandy - or something stronger.
Just next door, between number 5 and number 7, a sandy beach access slithers its way over the sand dunes and out to sea. I like the sound the sand dunes make at dawn and dusk; the gentle calling of nesting birds, the reeds and the wild grass rustling in the wind, the sniffs and sighs of my neighbours lap dog as she gives me the guided tour, "come on, Bugsly," I whisper.