My pregnant mother lay in a string hammock tied in our lush back yard. She swung it back and forth with one foot. Both hands on her warm round stomach. Singing to her little baby inside. Me. Tuis hung heavily on flowers, bowing their stems, suckling nectar. They sang too. They flapped their wings, like the washing on the line. That's when the Tui wasn't so rare. Our cat has brought home too many broken winged and bloodied, breast thumping with fear. I sometimes think that when I die, I'll fly up into the trees and live among the blossoms.