Conversations with the Departed
Over the weekend, I took the 200km drive to our country home. It’s something I do once or twice a year. Away from the hustle-and-bustle of city life, the 3 or 4-day stay always comes with less technology and more human-to-human interaction (read de-cluttering). For the latest trip, I travelled with my baby sister.
I recently read https://brightside.me/inspiration-health/study-shows-that-the-more-you-hang-out-with-your-mom-the-longer-shell-live-720510/amp/ our parents need us more and more as they age. Whilst their social circles dwindle, their need for human interaction doesn’t. Mum is the surviving parent, and recently retired after decades-long public service as an educationist. My informed guess is she’s always delighted to see her five children and grandchildren (three, so far).
This post is more about the other parent. The departed one. Dad passed 21 years ago, and a visit to the country home isn’t complete without a few somber minutes by his grave. Nonetheless, his after-life has been relatively peaceful. Over the last two decades or so, I’ve only dreamt about him once or twice, while Mum says he appeared to her only once. In a peaceful and cheerful mood.
In African culture, the dead are revered. Yet we "hang out" by Dad’s grave; pick one or two undesired plants by graveside. In silence. We talk about the moments we enjoyed with him. And so on. (We don’t do the Western thing of carrying flowers when visiting the departed.)
Continue to rest in peace, Dad.
ft
PS: Baby Sister is a dramatic driver. Whenever she’s behind the wheel, and we encounter cattle, she parks (not stops). And screams:
"Fred, cows."
She's the driver, what am I to do with Ankole's hakuna matata-gait, long-horned cattle?
