A Heart Can Grow Old
I think that she can be
as great a photographer
as Annie Leibovitz or
even Dianne Arbus. On
the telephone I can hear
the noncommittal drawl
in her voice. She does not
know who those famous
photographers are or what
role they play in history. She
cannot place their faces
in history the right side
up in the universe. I still
remember all of her adolescence.
I can even if I try hard
enough or rather imagine
that I can see her smile.
I can see her smile reaching
her coy brown eyes. Her
lashes and cheeks wet.
‘No, I am not depressed’,
she says. She tells me she
has made potato soup. Comfort
food. Soul food more of
a tea made out of vegetables
than a meaty broth. I remember
when you were all mute.
I remember all the details
of adolescent you but now
you’ve moved away from home.
Grown up you live by your
Own rules. You’ve traveled
the world from North America,
Thailand, India, the city of
Prague.
The Jerusalem of Florence
The blood of the Cape
runs through her veins.
The blood of the Cape
runs through my veins but
it doesn’t make us kin.
It doesn’t make me her daughter.
It doesn’t make me her
flesh and blood. I don’t
talk to her anymore.
Not the way I used to.
Our relationship just feels
different. She burned
my father’s swimming shorts today.
She said the iron was dirty.
I was the one who felt
exposed. Shamed in a way.
The other day she got
into a heated argument
with my mother. I took
my mother’s side. My proud,
headstrong and difficult
to get along with mother.
That day I felt exposed
and shamed for no reason
too. Things are different
now I realise. They will
always be different because
of the class system or the
political situation or the
great divide between black
and white, coloured and
Asian. She was like a mother
to me but things like I said
are different between us now.
President Thabo Mbeki’s Foundation
I am no stranger to hospital
life. In retrospect it seems
as if I was always in need of
a doctor. A team of specialists.
A psychiatrist. The tap root
of a psychologist for cognitive
behavioural therapy as if
my life depended on it. I wanted
the good doctors to cut out
the cancer of chronic illness.
You see the thing about chronic
illness is that it always threatens
to misbehave. It doesn’t
have those neat hospital corners
that beds have that you
wish for. There was always a shift.
Paradigms. A tightness in
my throat. I could feel every breath
I took at each vertebrae but
I wanted to survive. My memory
of needles is as long as
eternity. Oh I know that they
are convenient. Their aim leaps
through the air. I find myself
every six months or so in ‘Needle Park’
at the hospital. Arm pale. Arranged
on the table. This is what the
rest of the world doesn’t know.
I sob in my room late at night.
No one can hear me. There, there,
now. You’re almost human.
I tell myself repeatedly until
I am sane again. Vanity restored.
I’m whining. I’m unhappy
I know. I drink a glass of water
next to my bed. My nightly
ritual and suddenly I’ve inherited
the house again. I’m whole
in the sanctuary of my bedroom.
About Abigail George
No biography provided.