There isn’t a single bottle of perfume on your dressing
table. Not even French lace talcum powder that I associated you with in my childhood.
There is only one boring piece of some nameless pink soap in the bathroom. Not
your usual large collection of fragrant soaps. The bubble bath is gone. Nobody buys
or uses it anymore. You always smelled beautifully. I loved sidling up to you
and inhaling your perfume. Growing up, I used to think that since we shared the
same size hips, and some looks, I would grow up to be as elegant as you were. It
didn’t rub off. You were always clean, smart and fragrant. Effortlessly. Everyone
else’s mother looked dowdy and un-bathed next to you.
Your earrings and necklaces are gone from your bedside
drawers. We gave them all away. Those who got this inheritance don’t quite wear
it like you, a slightly awry necklace here, earrings too fashionable for that
one. On you it always was perfect.
Your beautiful house still looks beautiful. Just the way you
left it. Well sort of. Mandlovu sweeps, scrubs and disinfects it every day. Just
the way you like it. Everyone now runs their finger over the furniture,
checking for dust. If we pick up a speck, we worry, and quickly get the yellow
duster! Even the children know to clean up, just in case you come in and see
the dirty walls, dishes in the sink, or disorganized wardrobes. Sadly we are slacking
on some of your housekeeping rules. I now see cups mixed up with dishes. Drinking
glasses in the same water as greasy
pans. I shriek at my sons and daughter in law in horror – a bread knife dunked
in water - complete with its wooden
handle! Sorry ma. I am trying. Some standards
were just too high for our lot.
We have started drawing the curtains though, and leaving
them drawn all day! Come rain come sunshine. You used to hate that. I have
finally won the war on this one. I told you, the whole point we bought a North
facing house was so that the sunshine could stream in through those big windows
in the morning. I kept telling you that the sunshine was supposed to make us
all happier, sunnier, more cheerful. You were bothered about the sun burning
your sofas and discolouring them. So we fought each time I came home. I would
draw the curtains apart, you would draw them back together, casting a shadow
over those pretty green and butter-cup walls. Sorry mummy. We do protect the
sofas up with throw overs. I hope that makes you happy?
Your garden had become overgrown with weeds. The hedges were
too long. And the shrubs had grown into giant trees. All in one year. We trimmed
them all on your birthday, December 24th. We mowed the unwieldy lawn
too. I hope you like the new roses we planted. We had to uproot the old pink
ones because they didn’t look so beautiful. Sisi Maggie came to inspect the
garden after New Year’s. She said it is beautiful. She will tell you more about
it.
I am sorry I haven’t been going to church as consistently as
I should have. You taught me and my children to love God, and the Methodist
church. I love the singing. I love the
familiar rituals and liturgy. The fellowship is a blessing. I look for you in
the pews, among all the red blouses, and you are not here. I go to Gweru
Central more than my local because I keep hoping you will walk through that
door and sit with your fellow Golden Girls. But you are no longer inside the
church, and I don’t know how to pray and sing without you. Hymn 191, your
favourite, makes me weep. So you will forgive me if I spend six weeks without
going to a service. It is hard to keep up my faith and hope. It is even harder
to find the verses and chapters in the Bible when you are not here to quickly
turn the pages to the right section.
You will also be disappointed to know that I haven’t learnt
the art of speaking in a low voice. Mum, you have only been gone a year. It is
early days yet. You used to cringe when dad’s side of the family got together
and we shouted at the tops of our voice. “Hayi, MaKaranga bakithi!” you would
cringe. I haven’t put it in any of my resolutions because I know I will fail
miserably. You in contrast were the epitome of measured calmness. Maybe I
should hold you accountable for not passing on enough of your good genes to
me?
I don’t know how I have survived this whole year without
you. But I have. Over the last year, people have said a lot of trite little
things like; oh she had lived a full life. Oh she has gone to a better place. Time
will heal your pain. I don’t know what to think of all these things. Actually I
do know what I think. They are not helpful! You are my mother, the one who gave
me life, and my bearings. You were my true
North. I am lost. I don’t know what to do with myself. I wanted you to live to
200 years. I want you here, and not in some invisible “better place”. I still
want to smell your perfume each morning as you come to tell me you are going
off to your shop. And I expect to see you walk through that door each evening,
dog tired but happy to put up your feet. I want to sing and pray with you. I still
need you to show me how to cook sweet potatoes, rice with peanut butter and “road
runner chickens”. My children need to call you to tell you they passed their
exams. Today Andile passed his A Levels, and he had no grand- mother to call and
celebrate with him. Collen is doing well in University and we need you at his
graduation. I am expecting my second grand child and we need you here to help
us raise your great grandchildren. So I don’t
want to be told that you have gone to a better place, where we can’t see you
and enjoy your love.
Today, I will not say those trite things to you or to
myself. I love you mummy. I miss you. The children miss you. I bought you the
new Chanel perfume in a black bottle. I am keeping it for you. I am buying hats
for you and wearing them. I am keeping
the houses clean, the way you want them. I am trying to raise the children the
way you would have done it. I am trying to be a good person. Not a religious
zealot. As you always said, “it doesn’t matter how matter how many times you
say God this, or church that, just be a good human being to other human beings.
That is all we are required to be”. I don’t know how I am doing on that score.
I will plant more flowers in both our gardens because I know
you love flowers and flowers remind me of you. Today, I will sing Hymn 191, and
I will cry. I will pray. And cry some more. Then I will draw the curtains, and hopefully
the sun will be out and it will stream through. And cheer me up.
