The remains of a lifetime (six years after that day in the hospital coffee shop).

Today it's been six years since my father died. He died in that same bed where he was lying when I wrote about the hospital coffee shop, the priest, and the cappuccino.

The male nurse gently removed the see-through ventilator right after the machine by the bedside had become silent. He then allowed us a few moments of privacy behind the cotton curtains. I will not forget Dad's face which had been masked for so many days. That prominent nose was severely damaged by his desire for oxygen. His still perfect teeth displayed in final desperation. The linear arrangement of bones under the starched sheet and dark blue blanket. The bed was actually empty, he had really gone away. The cubicle was lifeless. There was so little left of my formidable, imperfect father.

I could not cry. My sister and Dad's wife clung to each other, sobbing. They touched the rigid form, saying he still felt warm. I did not want to confront the form that was no longer the man who made up half of me. I wanted to remember the lean, strong legs of the only person who would parachute with me, just four years previously.

The minister from our congregation, who was in time to pray by the bedside, quietly spoke to the ward staff about practical arrangements. I took in the emptiness where a great man had been bravely fighting cancer for a short, intense period of time. I walked outside to call my brother and husband, both abroad at the time.

After the calls, I quickly went into the restroom outside the ward. I washed my hands, applied lipstick (why?), and checked my teeth. A blueprint of my father's teeth mirrored back at me. So that is it then. A set of strong teeth. The remains of a lifetime.

14/03/2023

Image: J Herholdt, November 2013, Wonderboom Airport, Pretoria

Op jou vyftigste

Ek kon nie wag dat jy gebore word nie. Toe kom jy -vandag 'n halfeeu gelede- ons lewens binne. Almal was gaande oor die onmoontlik-mooi, fris klein boetie van my. Mamma wou jou nie neersit nie en Pa het jou soos 'n trofee rondgedra.

Na 'n rukkie was ek so jaloers op die sagte kombersbondel dat ek jou in my navyblou popstootwaentjie gesit het en besluit het ek gaan jou onder die pruimboom parkeer waar dit koel is en waar hulle jou nie so gou sou kon kry nie, om net weer 'n slag te sien hoe oulik ek dan is. Jy het die popwa kant en wal volgemaak met jou mansmenslyfie. Ek het Anja opdrag gegee om daar by jou te lê en wag sodat niks gebeur terwyl ek my aandag by ons ouers gaan opeis nie.

Toe ek om die hoek verby die appelkoosboom trek, hoor ek jou. Jy het nie gehuil nie, maar so grhhhhurghh gemaak. Skielik was ek heilig bevrees jy sou iets oorkom. Ek het teruggestorm pruimboom toe, reg oor die sandput gespring en langs die waentjie te lande gekom. Daar kyk ek toe in jou gesig in, en jy lag vir my.

Die pruimblare het soos groen vlaggies bo jou kop gewaai en ek was op daardie oomblik ontsettend skaam en verskriklik lief vir jou.

Jy moes verduur dat ek my rokke en kerkhoed vir jou aantrek, ek het vir jou skoolgehou en jou ore gedraai as jy gekla het jy wil nie verder letters leer nie. (Jy was toe amper twee.) Later moes jy sonder keuse in my pophuis intrek en die walglike sop eet wat ek van warm kraanwater en lepels sout "gekook" het wanneer jy speel-speel van jou kantoor af tuisgekom het by die pophuis.

Ek het aangedring om jou perd te wees wanneer ons cowboys en kroeks gespeel het, en in 'n wilde wegjaag-scene jou hele oogbank oopgekap toe ek te na aan die oop venster verby gehardloop het met jou stewige vierjarige lyf op my rug. Ek was oortuig my laaste dag het aangebreek en het jou kop onder die koue kraan gedruk in die badkamer. Jy het tjoepstil deur twee waslappe gebloei.

Maar jy het nie gehuil nie. Jy het my getroos omdat ek kliphard geween het oor jou (en uiteraard my) naderende dood. Daai wond het deur genade van Bo in 'n rekordtyd geset onder die koue waslappe en toe Mamma by die huis kom, het jy gesweer dis niks seer nie. Mamma het besluit om my te laat leef.

Toe jy in standerdses Rod Stewart se Baby Jane bo van die vlagpaal in die vierkant moes sing vir die matrieks, het ek vir almal vertel jy is eintlik 'n verlangse neef. Toe jy elke atletiek rekord breek en die beste losskakel ooit word, het ek jou blitsig teruggekleim as my kleinboetie. Almal was mal oor jou en ek kon in jou ligstraal blink.

Toe jy een aand die liggroen Audi uit die garage gesteel het en ek jou en jou maats uitgevang het, het ons 'n deal gemaak. Ek split nie op jou nie, en jy hou jou mond oor my talle oortredings. Ons het deurlopend baklei oor haarmousse, Crunchies en 'n bruin ring agtergelaat in in die liggeel bad. Maar ons het nooit op mekaar gesplit nie.

Double take

Taking five in the hospital coffee shop. Staring into my cappuccino, contemplating the frightfully ridiculous traffic home. Wondering where my dad went. He left behind a bony figure upstairs, under the starched intensive care unit sheet. I drop my head into my palms, breathing out. I become aware of a dark, though friendly presence to my right. It radiates a strong male energy.

Not sure about what to expect, I decide to move only my downcast eyes. They meet a pair of brown Crocs peeping out from under a black hem. A hem belonging to the bottom part of a skirt, it seems. The Crocs are rather large, so my head disobeys my being well-mannered. I look up to take in the rest of the male presence in black skirts. It is indeed a man. Dressed in a heavy, elegant cowl.

Momentarily, the instinct to jump is strong. I do, however, manage to sit tight. Surely the Grim Reaper won't send out such humane vibes? A young voice, as elegant as the delightful flowing darkness of his cowl, sounds over me. He of the cowl addresses the waitron: ''Cappuccino to go, Daphne, on the double, please. On my way to deliver Last Rites."

Daphne seems unfazed and does as she was asked. Unlike me, this is certainly not a first for her. One man's bowing out is another's cup of coffee, I guess.

14/03/2017

Image: M Meyer, Kakamas, Northern Cape, 25/01/2023