Ma Wa Gray

 I'm lying in a single bed between Gray and Eva in 'the girls room'. The girls I'm referring to are my three aunts, all over seventy years of age, some even older.  We are in the original family home for the week. I write about it often, because I write about home often. Eva asked me this evening if I have more memories of being on the farm or of the homes I've lived in with my little family of Stockil-Smiths.  It was a good question. I suppose the significance of my memories on the farm is that they are almost all painted with the brush of a brain that wasn't fully formed yet. The frontal lobe is only fully formed in one's mid twenties. The time I met Stephen. It comes as no surprise that the time when I was finally ready to commit to fully adult relationship was when I fully became an adult myself And so everything I have shared with Stephen has been through the lens of a person who literally knows her mind.  But before then, my goodness, the lenses change...

 This morning as Eva and I ran errands she asked me, 'Mom, what is the meaning of life?' She's 7. But not the norm. Most of my teenagers don't hit that question until I teach them Godot. And even then for some the existential search for meaning isn't as important as the staring line up for the first rugby team. But here we are, parked outside the gluten free bakery, pondering the meaning of life.  Needless to say all my answers were, to quote Eva, 'the K word'. Kak. My children must never use this abbreviation out of context. Lots of things are 'the k word'. Like Eva's bike that she's grown out of, that doesnt even have gears. And last night our Springboks were 'the k word.' Playing our B team against the Aussies led Gray to seek me out in the kitchen multiple times during the game, in tears, because our team was 'K'.  I digress. I didn't have a suitable answer for Eva. She did throw in reincarnation and atheism and the so...

 Heritage Day. Public holiday. Day 1 of Michaelmas holidays.  A number of mothers have arrived and let their children loose onto the trampolines. Despite their attempts at makeup dark rings highlight a long term. Fathers stare off vacantly into the mid distance, focus entirely somewhere else. Children's screams are ignored.  A toddler begs her mother to jump with her, she replies tersely, 'If I jump I'll wet myself.' The irony of the name, Jump 4 Joy, is not lost on some. 

 Our kitchen has just had a full renovation. Three weeks ago I manically packed up my entire kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. Things just got chucked into boxes because I didnt have time to be all feng shui and zen.  Now that it's almost done and I'm one lick of paint away from a brand new kitchen I've decided I'm over washing plates in my bath and preparing salads on my late father in laws writing desk so I'm moving back in.  But I didnt think it would be this emotional. Almost everything we own is either a hand me down or a kitchen tea or wedding present. And I still remember who gave us what.  And some of those people aren't alive anymore, or our friendship has drifted apart, or they live on the other side of the world and sometimes they are still second on my WhatsApp messages.  And 14 years into our marriage lots of the things are a little the worse for wear. They might have the odd chip, or now be an incomplete collection, Uncle Rick's hand made wooden e...

I haven't put my rabbits to sleep for a couple of days now because of late night rehearsals. But their burrow is now our room and, despite living in a five bedroom house, we now all sleep together. Mattresses live stacked against the walls and their beds in their bedrooms remain untouched. This morning when the alarm went off a soft vleisy Gray hand made its way under the cover to hold mine and a small wiggly girl jumped into bed and curled in on my chest for a cuddle.  One day when I am old and my children are making burrows of their own I will not, for a moment, regret these sacred and fleeting moment with my rabbits. 

Tomorrow will be the 10th time my matric Drama class will perform their final practical exam. Ten years of watching little boys who believed they had a voice become young men who trust their own agency.  These journeys I take with each and every boy in my care are benchmarks of the profound life I get to live.  And everytime my boys go on stage for the final time, I see the shadow of their younger selves in the wings, willing them on, believing in the person who they knew they could become.  And when the lights go out for the final time tomorrow, and my boys start the process of all their 'lasts',  I already start to miss them.