A slight yellow-orange light is peeping through a crack in my curtain. It makes the lighting in my room dreary. There's something definitely depressing about the sun setting- another day is almost gone and I never even stepped out to embrace it. I carefully will my stiff joints to cooperate as I descend my bed, walking steadily to the kitchen soon after, clutching onto my empty stomach, hoping to find something sensible to eat. The whole house feels lifeless, sort of like the sunset outside. A part of me wants to go back to bed. I hear movement outside the house and I'm reminded of what today is: they will try to take my dreams away. Suddenly my roaring appetite is suppressed by the thought, and the memories start flooding back.
He always gave me a kiss on my forehead before he left for work. Every morning I'd feel the cool, sweet tenderness of his lips.
"Should I make you some tea?" asks my mother.
I zap back to reality, my hollow expression getting its life back. My mother has just walked into the kitchen through the back door. "Yes please," I say, forcing a smile on my face. It feels weird- smiling.
With everything that has been going on, that avenue where smiling exists has cleared up. My mother is dressed up for the occasion: a traditional khiba dress, complete with the head scarf. She has an apron tied around her round figure, meaning she was helping with the cooking outside. I've always admired how she managed to be strong- for herself and everyone around her. When things had to be done, she was always there to handle them. I can tell by the strange way she catches sight of me that she's noticed the dark circles around my eyes, my frail body. Seeing me every day, she still battles to get used to the fact I may be wasting away for good. She can't come to terms that her only daughter no longer embodies happiness and sunshine.
"Here you go, dear." She hands me a steaming cup of tea. I instinctively clasp my hands around it, hoping the heat will give me a distraction.
"I saw him again," I say, increasing the grip on my cup.
I had a husband, not so long ago. We lived in Kalamare- a small village so humble and quiet, yet boasting thriving hills and fertile lands. Although for city people, like Thabo and I, it was more of a slow approach to life- it was the perfect place for us. He was going to be a maths teacher at the junior secondary high school. My husband was a gorgeous man with striking, big brown eyes that sort of dazzled when he was happy. Memories.
"What did he say to you this time?" asks my mother, her arms akimbo. I do not respond, but instead I stare deeply into my tea cup, somehow hoping to find something in it. But nothing comes out of it.
My emotions are in shambles right now. I don't know what to feel or how I'm supposed to be feeling after so many months. I just want to go back to sleep.
"He used to kiss me on my forehead before he went to work," I say to my mother. I give out a wry smile. I don't want her to come over and hug me. I am tired of people feeling sorry for me.
My mother breathes in deeply and releases the breath like a deflating balloon. "After today, maybe things will go back to normal." There's heaviness in her voice, it means she's drawing it from somewhere deep down- a reservoir.
They want to help me get rid of my dreams.