if you were not...

you could be

light blueness,

a poet’s muse,

braai'd marshmallow,

soft rain,

a beautiful poem,

gel pen ink,

silk,

a rusk dipped in Earl Grey tea,

butterfly wings,

mist,

the scent of petrol and vanilla,

an esculent word,

dusk,

a cashmere shawl,

autumn leaves,

cocoa butter.

but you are, and in so being,

you’ve become

my reification and

Love’s inscape.

Transience

There’s nothing like a run in with mortality to bring one closer to Allah. Even if it was not mine; especially because it was my father’s.

He was shot in the chest on the night of the 28th July in our kitchen, by one of two burglars. They escaped with nothing but our peace of mind. My brother, who was in the next room, drove my dad to the hospital while my sister, barefoot and hysterical, tried calling my mum and family members for help while in the car. (Her R12 of airtime lasted, somehow).

She called me too, in desperation, but stuck in this tiny town a thousand kilometres away, all I could was pray. Please keep him alive, please keep him alive.

[Oddly, I remember thinking of the novel Shades during those hours, and Father Charles’ belief that those who have enough faith don’t need to bargain with God. I didn’t. None of that “Please Allah, if you do x, then I promise I will do y”, because my dad also taught me that His will doesn’t come with conditions.]

I flew home the next day, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. My dad has always been my bastion, my cliched pillar of strength. I love him like he is invincible, as daughters often do. But seeing him outside of our lives’ template - in a hospital bed, wires protruding from his body, struggling to breathe, grimacing every time he moved – was a hack to the heart each time.

Two months later, he’s almost recovered from his injuries. He’s got his smile back, but not his verve. And sometimes I can tell that the puffiness around his eyes is not from exhaustion but tears.

Life persists, we comply dutifully, rehearsing platitudes that “we’re okay now.” Even if my sister has nightmares and my mother has insomnia and I cry in the bathroom.

I fluctuate between sheer gratitude and abject rage, ineffably glad that my father is alive but repulsed and terrified to be living alongside people with no humanity.

Paper plate love

Monday night was the hottest damn night (temperature wise, ahem) that I've ever experienced.

The flat was a sauna, my forehead was sweating so profusely that it felt like a free facial.

Unlike normal people, we don't own a fan and couldn't open the windows. You see, the economist in him is reluctant to spend money on a "wind blowing thing" during this cash-strapped month, and the arachnophobe in me is paranoid of spiders crawling into our room and biting me to death. (Yes, death. I've read that such things have happened).

I did what any girl would do: I whined, and moaned and bitched about the weather, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how the oven-like heat was his fault.

He was more proactive though: he ransacked the kitchen cupboards for a paper plate and used it to cool me down. I think I swooned then, even after years of being with him. He spent a good half hour flicking it to and fro, like a geisha with an oriental fan, until I eventually fell asleep.

Now that's love. Bless.