Inheritance

My feet dangle in the old waterhole. It looks the same. The dark patch in the corner, the black hole, we would call it. Mouth agape at anyone brave enough to swim its murky depths.

The kahikatea still looms over me. Frayed remains of a rope hanging from a branch. We would swing from it, arcing high overhead before letting go and plunging to the creek bed. Feet would kick against grainy pebbles, propelling us upwards until we burst out in a fountain of water, gasping. Dad cut the rope down after Becky Johnson slipped and broke her arm.

Swallows skim the surface. I always loved it best on still days, when you could watch their reflections flying beneath the water. Of course, it would only last until some neighbourhood kid dove in, ripples distorting everything.

I look at my children, small bodies tense with excitement. Ready to swim the mythical waterhole their mother always told them about. Clad in neon togs, with their frog-and-flower-splattered towels slung over their shoulders, they wait to make their own adventures.

‘Let’s go,’ I tell them.
‘Why?’ Three disappointed mouths ask. 

‘We’ve been good all day,’ my eldest boy adds, lip trembling.

I look upstream to the new paddock. No fences. Cows mill around, chewing cud, and lowing. A baby calf frolics in a field of buttercups, its mother watching nearby. A large black-and-white cow stands in the middle of the creek drinking. She lifts her tail and shits directly into the water.

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Kelin Belcher traces her whakapapa to Ngāti Whanaunga and Ngāti Pūkenga. After nineteen years of raising children, she has recently rediscovered her passion for creative writing. When she’s not writing or wrangling teenagers, Kelin can usually be found studying or unsuccessfully arguing with her obese cat about his dietary requirements.