UNdo (18.09.2012) 

Five years ago today, at roughly 08:00, I stood waiting outside the magistrate office. I would legally and otherwise bind myself to the picture of forever that I had carefully woven in my heart and mind. Today, I can’t commit to a celebration. So instead I will rabble in reflection below…

“That only happens in movies” they said. We defied their limited notions with a timeless kiss in the dirty streets of Johannesburg, while clinging to our pockets lest those who picked them, found them. Weeks later a meeting you would have with a familiar stranger would anger me and have me tuck my heart’s keys away lest YOU found them. But your eyes sparkled with ambition and your hands struck me with desire; I loosened my grasp.

My father said “dare not be unequally yoked, how then would you raise your children?”. He said this deeply simmering with delight at your wish to take my hand and make an honest woman of me. We lay excitedly gazing at the single pearl on my finger, speaking of what WOULD be. Rarely did we speak of what COULD be if we lost the keys we both had been entrusted with.

My diamond ring which pardoned the single pearl, after the familiar stranger made a mockery of it would be tainted still… My old lover would leave this earth. You asked me to mourn, maybe wishing that, that would wash the corners of my soul that you still hadn’t occupied. I could only dream of being called your wife. My tears were aimless. Was I mourning the one who was or what was predestined to be.

Before you watched me walk down the isle, fame, money and adoration found us. No, wait… It found you. I happily walked with you, sapphire and diamonds in hand. I had a piece of paper now that carried all the promises of “for better or worse, till death do us part”. This little piece of paper wrapped the keys inside of it and invited my mind to it’s warm abode. I became delusional. Your eyes never wandered and neither did mine, why worry about those would pry lustfully at my flesh and your status? Our cellphones carried no weight of passcodes. Our home reeked of pleasure and satisfaction. Our eyes glistening with promise. We have found what we were looking for in that timeless kiss on the dirty streets of Johannesburg.

I remember the first time I cussed at you. The first time I threw something at you. I remember how I broke the promise never to slumber in anger. See, we understood that heart’s stop beating in the mornings too. What we didn’t know was that the covenants of lovers had hearts too.

“In 5 years we will review this contract.” We laughed loudly.

I laugh now remembering the fourth. The fourth of six. Six years of analysing the colours in your eyes. Six year of birthdays and deaths, of humans and covenants too. I want to forget. The death of the colours in your eyes that painted my heart’s canvas.

Year seven pending year five, I bought a bucket of paint. Black. I poured it over my soul. It dripped. Down to my feet and left bare the lessons I HAD to learn from YOU, from LIFE, from LOVE, that were specially crafted FOR ME.

Love with no reservations. Love stupidly. Love completely. Love to death. Love beyond death. Love beyond pain. Love your scars. Love the flowers on the graves of your hand written happily ever afters. Love YOU first, after God. Love the journey. Love him. Love him despite. Love him inspite. Love prayer. Love commitment. Love recreation, rehabilitation, restoration. Love your children. Love their children. Love their joys. Love LOVE.

This piece of paper no longer holds my mind. This was no choice of mine. Life spat in my face often enough and entrenched it’s vile stench in my hands; Each time I dared to wipe my tears I would smell the struggle. The struggle to be who I promised to be while loving you. Loving us. Loving this. So my mind detached in search of cleaner spaces.

Almost eight and safely at five, I would only changed two things. The deaths of the beings we coloured in hopes of creating masterpieces.

The rest should stay the same. How else would I undo the knots of premature promises I made to you. How else would I learn to celebrate what has become at FIVE.

It was/is NECESSARY

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Her untold story 

Losing a child to miscarriage may be one of the most painful things any woman may suffer. To society, it’s not a true loss because you had never ‘met’ your child or they had not ‘developed enough’. The pain one feels as a coffin is lifted into a hearse, is the very pain experienced. And what’s  worse,is that you cannot talk about it. I mean it is so ‘taboo’ and possibly ‘shameful’ to your family. So you grieve and suffer in silence, whilst people confidently ask ‘so when are you having a baby?’. It is also something we are not educated about. There is something called a missed miscarriage. Your baby passes away but your body doesn’t recognize the death. So you happily continue being ‘pregnant’ until the doctor breaks it to you. You may choose to wait for the baby to pass on its own eventually, or be induced and suffer labor pains only to deliver a lifeless being. The trauma of carrying your lifeless child lingers. Then you must wake up and carry on as usual lest people wonder. Throw away the baby magazines, delete the apps, and break the news to family and friends who really don’t know what to say. Then the choice to get pregnant again comes into play. How do you begin?  Knowing that babies die before you get to hold them, kiss them… How do you process all this in your quiet corner. What do you say to the disappointed faces who’s pockets had begun to shake for your baby’s sake and who’s hearts were just as eager? How do you not think of 10 000 things you must have done wrong, even though science says there is really nothing you could have done. You must then attend baby showers, and babysit, and listen to careless girls toy with the idea of abortion or careless mothers complain about their gift. If only they knew that in a second your life can change. I still pray for every woman who has suffered a loss, early or late pregnancy or even after the child was born. Somebody does understand. Understands that you had named your child and sang to them,and had worked hard to prepare for their arrival. Someone understands the guilt when you consider barren women and others unlucky as this. This may sound petty, but what an enlightenment when the world discovered that Beyonce had had a miscarriage. The most affluent are human too and suffer the sting of death. 

No one is seeking pity. Just a release from the solitude. The freedom to celebrate a life that could have been. 

The person to tell her story. 
Again,be kind to everyone,because you simply cannot know what battles are being fought within. 

Acknowledge her strength but love her in her weakness. 

Call her mother,she has given life that was cruelly taken away. 
Each child is a blessing… A miracle 
‘A letter to my unborn child’ she wrote… 
Mommy loves you…