Storm Albertyn Gr. 11E
17 April 2009.
It was a school day and, as per usual, I was dressed up neat and tidy for the day. My grey school dress reached my knees but the wind had blown it up to my thighs. I was only six, turning seven in four months; my brother was two years younger than me (well, two years and one month).
We slept over at my aunt's place the night prior and were going to do so again, even though I had school that day. It wasn't much of a problem, though, because it was on my transport's way and she knew the house.
School rushed through in a blur and I wasn't even sure I'd learnt anything other than how to do basic sums like 1+2, but my first-grade teacher was proud so no worries there.
I got home a little later than my brother, who was still in créche, and was greeted by a few of my cousins as well as family I hadn't seen in a while. We had a small party the afternoon -or maybe it was a braai -as we only awaited my parents’ arrival from work. My father wasn't supposed to work that day, but he liked the overtime, I guess.
Evening came around, and we packed up our puzzles and stuffed toys, and stood impatiently at the door ready to greet my mother and father; both two cousins, my brother and me.
But so long we waited that my baby cousin had drifted off, so we were told to watch over her crib and make sure she slept okay. As kids, we couldn't refuse, and skipped off merrily into the bedroom.
After watching two or three episodes of Barney, the sound of the front door being opened informed me that my parents were home. I was excited to show them the gold star I'd gotten for math and a drawing I did in my free time.
But the bedroom door was locked.
I tapped my finger to my chin, looking back at my younger family members who paid no mind to anything other than Teletubbies. Pressing my ear to the door, I overheard snippets of a conversation.
“Danielle”, my mother's name. “Accident at work”, something that happened a lot. None of these stuck any specific emotions as my father spoke. “Hospital”, a word repeatedly thrown across the room. My aunt's crying voice bellowing over anything else I could hear, except, “They don't know if she'll make it.”
Now I'd only learnt a few math sums that very day, but even I could have added all of those up without messing up the answer.
Hot tears trickled down the sides of my face, flushed and saddened, as my brother asked “Is mommy home?” with his thumb in his mouth.
I whispered “Mommy isn't coming home”, and he began to tear up, thinking that she'd left us on purpose and for something better like to live in a jelly bean factory. Thick, flowing tears beginning to drench his clothes as he cried and cried. My cousin, overhearing what I'd said, joined him, raising the volume high enough to wake the baby. But I doubt they really understood me and instead just felt what I was feeling then.
I broke out of my frozen state, walking over to the baby, as I wiped away my tears. I told a few jokes, made some funny faces, anything to make them laugh, anything to take the pain away.
Later on, we were informed of the incident. There was a fire at the workplace and my mother had been badly burnt on her arms and back, being rushed to hospital as soon as the ambulance had arrived.
From there on, memory eludes me. Memories of anything for years after my childhood with my mother, memories of anything for years after her death; blank, blank, blank, like a freshly painted wall covering layer over layer of old, familiar brick on brick on cement on brick. The sound of her voice faded away like a Formula 1 race car speeding off a broken race track to somewhere, nowhere, anywhere but here. Her smell drifting off like a dying flame in the midst of a frightful wind.
Hugs that suffocated the sadness out of me when I'd hurt myself, kisses goodnight after a full day of excitement, me calling for her when I'd gotten nightmares; all gone.
Sometimes I just feel like picking her out from my dreams and embracing her in a hug, for real, but her face, her body, her place in my memory, became nothing but a blur to me until she disappeared from my consciousness completely.
The only thing that stuck with me is that I don't think I've ever seen her without a smile.
And when I talk about her, all I can do is laugh and joke about how I really feel because, subconsciously, I know that no matter how sad or depressed I get, it only matters that others around me are smiling and content; just like she always was.
Comments