I buried my son today

I buried my son today

3 years ago.

A Jewish coffin.

Under the sweltering African sky turned red,

Wind

Hard rain drops

Dusty ground.

Broken flowers

Broken heart.

Zane.

Mo Chuisle

Who am I now?

I was the mother to four boys.

This is how I see it - I had a certain rank. I wore a spectacular mother uniform with 4 dazzlingly bright medals woven tightly to the front of my precious mother-garment. Then, one medal was crudely ripped away, leaving a big, gaping hole. Yes, the other three medals are still there, but one is missing. The first medal I ever received is gone.

So - what rank do I hold now? Who am I now? Have I gone from Captain to lowly crew member?
This isn't a piece to 'pick up' - this piece - this dazzling medal is gone, ripped from me and there is no way to mend, replace, redo. So what do I do instead? And what will become of me?

My son died today

Three years.
He was gone before he died, actually. But while the machine forced him to breath, I could pretend he was there.
I have never seen the death certificate, I didn't look at the report of the post mortem.
I forget how tall he was and I'm not too sure how much he weighed. The details did not interest me.
I did not want to know.
I didn't go to the place where he had his accident, I did not go to his place of work.
I didn't see the motorbike.
I saw his empty room and his clothes waiting to be washed. I could still smell him. I could still hear his voice.
And I can mark the exact spot where I was when I knew he had left this earth, before they told me he was gone, I could feel the invisible twining from his spirit to mine, snap, ever so silently. And when it snapped, my heart shattered like a mirror crashing to the floor. 

A heart still in pieces, some pieces still missing, pieces he took with him. And what is left, doesn't work too well anyway.
And because of that, I'm not too sure about who I am now.

This crippling grief...

I wanted to go back in time. I wanted to say - on this day 3 years ago this is what was happening. But suddenly it became too hard. It's hard to get the words down when you're trying to fight the thoughts away. And maybe that is the problem here.

I believe that grief is solid. I believe that is is just there. Well, this grief in particular - the grief you suffer (and believe me you suffer) when your child dies. This is what I think; I love my children. It's a love that is there. It's not a love that can become more or less. It's there in it's entirety. Total and complete. And that's how I feel about this grief that I have for Zane. The grief is now there sitting alongside the love. The grief, also in it's entirety.

It was this day 3 years ago that I again got on a plane, this time to go to my eldest child, Zane Richard, after getting the call that he had had an accident on his motorbike. I had taken a notebook with me. An attractive black, narrow, leather note book that has the word Journal embossed in gold on the cover. I thought I would use this as his recovery journal, that when he was all well again, I could read to him what the journey had been like.

So on the plane, this is what I wrote;

6 November 2007
Tuesday
My Darling Zane-
How does one explain in words
the pain
and heartache a mother feels
when her child is suffering?
I keep seeing your
beautiful face
in my mind.
Please stay!
Please hang on!
Can you hear my voice
in your heart?
Can you feel
my love for you?
Zane, I love you so much!
Please hear me!
Hang on - I'm almost half-way there.
Can you feel how everyone is rooting for you?
The prayers that are being said
do you hear them?
Please, Zane!
Don't go!
We have so many
years ahead of us -
this family -
Stay!
Stay and be a part of it!
In my mind
I hear your voice.
"Mom" is what you say.
Please don't go.
Do you hear me calling
your name in my heart?
Zane.
Zane?
I'm on my way
Please wait for me
Hang on!
Hang on!
I hear your voice
in my heart.
"Mom"

My father didn't remember

My father didn't remember firing the maid.
He was suprised when he got home after being in the hospital and found the maid was gone.

Over the years there were other things he didn't remember either. Like my 21st.
He did remember some other birthdays - like my 6th - okay - he was still at home then, so he probably had my mother to remind him. I loved that card. It was a big red apple with a bright green worm and it said To the apple of my eye. Which I had been until my mother cut my long, knotted hair and I went all rebellious at 9 and nicked some useless stuff from that damn stationary shop.

He forgot to give my eldest sister, Janine, R10 when she completed the Rubik's cube, like he said he would. Of course he didn't believe she would, but she did. 
He forgot that by the time my parents got to the divorce lawyers, my mother had already given him plenty chances to improve on his family man status, but he only ever remembered that very last chance in the lawyers office when she said no more chances.

Perhaps I should've been more forgetful. It might have been easier for both of us had I forgotten when he didn't phone for my 21st. Or my 18th. Or my 16th. Many birthdays. I should have forgotten when he didn't keep his word, I should have forgotten when he became unreasonably irritated, I should have forgotten when he wasn't there for me.