Mourning

11th February 2012 Saturday

We crunch through ice crusted puddles and skid on red mud - following a path by the River Otter. It’s running fast today, a murky chalky colour flecked with a gobs of foam which collect in a network of branches overhanging the water - like spittle in mouth corners. Black cawing crows gather in the roof tops of giant naked trees lining the river bank. In spite of a pale sun the air is cold and I keep my gloves on.

Later we have fish and chips, a frittata and salad in the cafe. We don’t talk much. Everything, everywhere reminds me of my father - of times we spent here, things he said, the smell of his coat, his big warm hands, choking on his food, his crinkly smile. Being alive.

I never once felt this dragging tiredness in South Africa. My sister says we are all in delayed mourning. Mine has taken up residence in my chest - a three week old cough that won’t go away - still scratchy and raw - spitting out of me every now and again like the squawk of one of those black crows.