The packed suitcase
(for Ambronese)
Rapture is the son of Johannesburg.
The same way that Prague is
now the adopted hometown
of my sister. He did not love
me. In return, I did not love him.
He took my mother and father’s
love wherever he went in the
world and everywhere I went I lived
in a self-imposed exile. People
could be kind but I only learned
that later on. In my mid-thirties.
In other words, when I was grown.
He dropped me off at the mental
institution (Tara) on a Monday morning.
Never even looked at me as if
I was a real, live person. I was
a walking experiment-in-the-making.
‘Not to be touched or spoken to
if anyone could help it’. I was fresh
from a weekend spent cooking
over steaming pots, gossip with a diabetic aunt. Her youngest daughter
tucked away safely behind a
mountain and green-lit valleys
of Swaziland. The other in America.
They could make the life choice
of being wives and mothers, (if
they wanted to). Like a river’s
sublime
movements, my cousin watches
me
out of the corner of his eye. For
any
sudden movements, I guess. I learned the hard way.
Heat rising up his neck. I learned the harsh way that
family could not be kind.
You can’t sing, so you
can’t fit and a family that
can’t sing together can’t
live together. This tiger
is not welcome, the other
tigers seem to sing in unison. I’m standing at the door of the church
hall. Waiting.
Pretending that I’ve been invited to the party.
That I fit in. That I can sing.
- Abigail George 2017
Abigail George is a South African blogger, poet, short story writer, aspirant young adult novelist and playwright. She is the recipient of grants from the National Arts Council, the Centre for the Book and ECPACC. She briefly studied film at the Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg. Her poems have been published in various anthologies, numerous times in print in South Africa and online in zines based in Ireland, Turkey, Finland, Australia, India and elsewhere.
No comments:
Post a Comment