It was a Sunday mourning.
Geared with my suit, ready to go to church.
The slow rings of the telephone gave off an awkward silence with my family sitting in the lounge.
My Aunt answered the phone…
I can still see her pupils dilate a few seconds into the call.
My mom said to her, “Deborah no, what is it?”
“Ma passed on.”
My sister and I ran into our rooms crying.
Our pillows were like the dry grounds of the Karoo absorbing the needed water.
My Dad ran out the kicking the locked gate. Bang, bang!
My heart had lost the huge percentages of blood of which Ma was the source.
Yet I had gained that which she left behind as a legacy.
She is the scar which requires no ointment to remove as a mark.
Integrated into my heart is a scar which heals.
Ma, you’re my beautiful scar.