Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

Hey there my Angel.

It’s not surprising that today dawned with grey wet skies, given where we are, and what we’ve done.

It’s been 40 weeks since your tired body finally said goodbye and today we brought you home.

Actually we brought you home 🇿🇦 a little over a week ago. You had been sitting next to your bedside since February, in an unassuming box, and night after night I could turn on to my side and you would still be there.

Our trip to see our family tied up with spring in South Africa, over the All Saints holidays, an occasion where in France they particularly honour the dead. Last week I packed you into a bag and for some light hearted Bad Dad Jokes, ribbed you about being slow to catch up while whizzed our way through the airport. We had a moment when the security control folks had to adjust their x-ray scanner because they couldn’t see through the mass and I had to whisper- with tears in my eyes- that you were travelling to your resting place. I don’t know who felt more awkward- me or him. And then you travelled through the airports, never far from us, we took you for a platter of nachos at Hard Rock Cafe in Dubai’s bustling airport like we’ve done before, we sweated in the 6am South African heat while we waited for the rest of our luggage and soon after, like always, your Dad was there to greet us. Him and B had eyes rimmed with tears, their pain and grief so much harder because of the distance between us. Days later we took you to the beach and this time it was me who stood nervously at the waters edge as your girls danced in those India Ocean waves that relentlessly pounded away at the Southern Africa eastern coastline. Do you remember how it was always you who clutched onto their little hands to support them as the current tugged at their little ankles? They’re big enough now to know, but it doesn’t take away the anxiety. And then it was the last journey to Boston where I finally had the courage to lift you from the unassuming cardboard box that you had been in, and let you see the farm.

Obviously we were going to bring you home. While our lives in France are good to us, your heart, your soul, every fibre of your being remained altruistic to your motherland. You loved the sand beneath your feet, the bluest of skies that spread wider than the skies of Europe.

Your wishes were that we brought your ashes to Boston, the small farming community that you had grown to call home. Boston is where you met my childhood friends who became your adulthood friends. Boston is where you would bring your bicycle and head off into the rural roads and just be there – locals would see you out cycling and admire your stamina. Boston is where you would happily wear your Sharks rugby shirt and laugh that they would always remain the second best rugby team. Boston is where we would bring our girls to the farm and where you would love to drive around with Dad, and where you would indulge him with requests for glasses of fresh milk. Boston is where we came to say goodbye to Mom 10 years ago who loved you as deeply as she did us, as deeply as your parents love you. Boston, and Netherby Farm is where- when we drove here in 2024, you changed the playlist we had in the car to a song called “Huistoe”, (Coming Home) and you did this with concise actions that Boston is where you came home to. Boston is where we got married, in a church that has been resting on the side of a koppie for more than a hundred years, a church called St Michael’s, and it there we we brought you home to rest.

Johan, Koekie, Belinda and Ruan, who had brought us to the beach, were with us as we said our final goodbyes. Johan lowered your urn into a hole that Dad had dug, and we cried and held onto each other in sadness. We were surrounded by the community that you had grown to call your community. And then we went for tea and coffee and cake and sandwiches that Sheila and her team of helpers pressed onto us with warmth and kindness, and the dogs from the vicarage house next door ran around our feet as the grey mizzle from the skies dusted our hair and shoulders with a reminder that life can change in a second.

Babes, you should have been there- you would have loved it. I know you were in our hearts, but it still hurts me that you got sick and we were robbed. The thing is, between everyone in our lives, we are strong enough to get up and face a new day. This weekend in particular, between Dad’s quiet actions, Sheila’s ability to cut through the noise, Graham and SJ who have opened their doors to us with generosity and compassion and Andrea who has been at my side throughout, Koekie who endured the long journey and kept her spirits high, Ruan who seemed to appreciate the farm as much as you did, as well as Belinda who has listened to my outpourings of sadness and frustration over the angst of the months that have passed since: me and our girls are good.

Death, taxes and the rising sun is what people say are life’s only sureties. I definitely cannot say where I will be in a year, in 10 years, and where the girls may end up. But you are back home. You’re in South Africa and your resting place is somewhere where any person who strays off the north to south-east highway from the plateau of the Big Smoke, winding down the Tugela Valley and across the rural lands of KwaZulu Natal can follow a road to a tiny red brick church nestled in the side of the hill. That person will be met with Bushbuck, piggies, Yellowood Trees, daisies and a place of peaceful tranquility. There your remains rest alongside Mom, and Aunty Helen, with Ruth and Errol Carr. I met you a mere 3 weeks after my beloved grandmother Ruth passed away. And when my time comes, I will be at your

side.

The grey mizzle skies that we woke up to this morning are typical of Boston in spring. And on a day where sombreness is anticipated, the wet weather brought it home.

Sadly, your urn is now no longer at arms reach and I feel your distance from me too. In the quiet moments my heart is sore. But it’s not forever. Life is here to be lived.

Go well my angel. We’re always nearby.

I love you,

Me.