My parents met when they were 14 and 16 at High School in a small town called Levin which sits near the bottom of the North Island of New Zealand. My father was Maori, French and Irish, my mother Scottish/ English and their relationship was frowned upon being of mixed culture. My father would bike from Otaki ( further south 25 mins by car, god knows how long by bike) to see my mother in the weekends and they would sneak out to the beach whenever they could steal some time together. My grandparents disliked my father intensely and banned him from the house making thier relationship that little bit more of a need. My grandmother went so far as to tell my mother that she would grow up to be a bad housewife, a terrible mother and never go anywhere in her life should she continue to carry on seeing my father a dirty little brown boy ( her words ) . My mothers answer was to get pregnant and then of course they HAD to get married. The marriage lasted 15 years and three children, my mothers house was so clean it scares me to this very day, my father was the headmaster of three schools…as for the mother bit, well thats debatable. Their story was at that time one of love and lust, I love looking at the old photos of them in their faded sepia with eyes only for each other. Sometimes I can even remember the smell of my father fresh from swimming or after a hard days work in the garden and remember the feel of his soft skin and the touch of his hands as we would walk beside the lake in the twilight at the end of the day. I miss him terribly still after all these years, his soft voice, the sparkle in his eyes and his magnificent storytelling abilities. I would give anything for just one more day, the things I would say and the photos I would take.