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Missing

I miss the yellow bird that sings outside my window in the summer. I miss bright red stoeps from my old house. My new house looks like a res room. Suitcases, boxes and hangers. I miss lunch boxes with small samoosas and sausage rolls. I miss Sunday afternoons with neighbours and biriyani. I miss neighbours with deep house music bursting through the windows on a Friday afternoon.

I miss childhood best friends and toffee apples. I can’t remember the last time I had an Apple. Apple’s remind me of my grandmother’s house,  two trees in the garden and ants crawling up the branches. How fearless we were climbing up the apricot tree and the light branches that could break at any point but we still climbed up. Marberry trees,  how our fingers red stained and sticky,  we would play and get dirty. I miss that innocence and adventure.

I miss personal dairies. Pen friends and libraries. The fresh smell of empty pages of a note book. I miss writing at the level of no obligation. At the level of no guilt trippin. I miss karaoke night’s,cocktails and poetry evenings. I miss blueberry muffins and walks in the park. Big hair, beards and being black.

I miss home. I miss my mother.  I miss my brother. I miss my sister. Today I miss my father.

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