Grief
It takes you unawares, grief
Oddly so.
It’s in the suddenness of the absence
The no more
A voice gone. Forever.
It’s in the silence that’s left behind
And the nothingness of it
The tiny minutes between living and dying
The same face, but empty.
The same person, but not.
But mostly it’s in the never.
Never again to smile. Never again to laugh.
Never again to be cross, or funny
Or impatient or loving
Or even confused.
It’s the never that takes you unawares.
It is all in the way you see it.
Everything.
Through your eyes.
Not through anyone else’s
Walk a mile in their shoes, then you’ll know.
No you won’t.
Because your life is still your life.
To go back to after you’ve walked the mile
The mile that takes you nowhere.
It is not a mile, or seven, every day, to school.
Or to the river to draw water
Or a mile long run, because you’re scared.
Because you have no other option.
No, the mile you walk is just to try it out. To see.
But you can’t see.
Because you are still looking through your eyes.
It is just the way it is.
Pretoria 1988
And that was it. All over.
The State President had decided
Perhaps after a glass or two of the very best
That your life no longer mattered.
A life he knew nothing of
A life he did not wonder about
A life that normally would not cross his mind.
He signed the death warrant with a small flourish.
Moved the papers aside, onto the next one.
Perhaps, as he signed, he thought of his wife and wondered about her day.
Or the secretary who had irritated him earlier with her whiny voice
Or whether he should wear the navy suit at tomorrow’s function.
Who knows?
If he thought of you, in between, the thought was fleeting.
If he thought of you, it did not matter as much as any of that.
Why would he care? Yours was a life far from his.
Far from his childhood and his growing
Far from his stumbling into adulthood
Far from those he knew and understood.
His people, who spoke his taal, they mattered.
Clemency and mercy, a presidential right over life or death.
To grant or not to grant.
A right given to a Christian man, kerk every Sunday.
Eyes closed in prayer, a solemn settled face on him.
God seeping out of his every pious pore.
But not for you.
What’s that you ask, a merciful God?
Maybe. For himself. For the others who looked like him
Sounded like him. Were like him.
For them, the well of mercy was deep.
Tortured and killed, you say? Children as well?
But all carried out in the name of the State. His State.
They had no need of his mercy, their deeds swept aside.
Swept under. Disappeared with their victims.
No clemency today for you though
No mercy. No forgiveness. No Christian love.
Because you are less to him. A nothing.
A name he cannot pronounce.
And in seven days time you will know that.
As they lead you up the stairs to your death.
As they place the hood over your face
As you put your feet onto the painted footprints
Right distance apart. Because that matters.
As they carefully rest the noose around your neck
The knot in the right place, under your ear
You will know.
And as they say a prayer. Always a prayer
Asking God to forgive you. Not them.
As they pull the lever, and your feet go beneath you
As you jerk, and flail and twitch. As you void yourself.
You will know.
But your knowing does not matter any more.
My name is Paula Leyden, I am, among other things, a children’s author, living in Ireland and my books website is www.paulaleyden.com
There are some things that I wish to write about that do not really fit on that site, so I created this blog for those things.
Thank you (in absentia) to Dr, Seuss for so many things – but in particular for the title of this blog.
oh the thinks you can think 