Boishaaier 2019

KREATIEWE SKRYFSTUKKE / CREATIVE WRITING

THE PARENTS OF MY PARENTS The old door opens with creaks that echo throughout the whole house. I remember opening this door many times in my life. The freshly-baked cookies, the sweet aroma of Grandma’s perfume, the smell of old furniture always bringing that homely feeling. But no aroma hits me this time, only the smell of dust and abandonment. Walking along the corridor, remembering Grandma’s sweet face and soft skin, the smell of her perfume, her bangles, her curly hair, all the good memories. I remember that Granddad had such rough hands that it could be used as a brush, his eyes were encircled by wrinkles. Now, thinking back, I remember how Granddad said he will miss me, he held me tight and I’m sure he was crying. As if he knew he would never see me again. Looking back now, I feel ashamed that I never told him how much I love him, ashamed that I traded my seat on his lap for a game of hide and seek. I remember the last time I saw my grandma alive, a look of pure enjoyment on her face as my brothers and I gladly polished the ginger biscuits, those that fall apart in your mouth, releasing unending deliciousness. Now, walking towards the living room and kitchen, the memories come back. I can almost smell the old furniture, baked in the sun that seeps through the windows. I remember the old radio playing French classics. I hear Grandma in the kitchen: pots, plates, knives, forks and spoons. Grandma always made food when we came, from apple tart to meatballs, always another recipe, always tasting better than the last. Grandma’s chair stood in the corner, the big yellow one with flowers and birds embroidered on it, next to the fireplace. I remember sitting on Grandma’s lap, the fire burning, listening to Granddad telling stories of his childhood while the rain hammered on the roof. The last story he told me was of when he and his brother wandered into the woods, searching for the lost treasure. I walked with them, through the trees, around the old wood house. I felt the same fear they felt when they got lost, I could smell the wet wood, I could feel the dampness of the forest. I was excited when they found the spot marked on the map and disappointed to find that the treasure was all an illusion. Those stories would entertain me for hours. I would lie awake at night, imagining running through the grass fields, just like grandpa did. I remember Grandma playing “La Mer” on the piano. I used to lie on the leather couch with my eyes closed, nothing on my mind but how the previous note complemented the next. Feeling the sun on my face, half asleep, while Grandma stroked the keys to relax my soul. Grandma always loved music, especially playing French classics on the piano. I remember helping Granddad at his working table. Watching his hands make anything out of wood, like magic. He once made me a knight, one on a horse with a sword and a shield. I always thought grandpa was the knight, always standing up for what is right. Grandpa was my knight. Standing behind the worktable, I swallow the lump in my throat, my eyes burning with tears at the memories that come of my fallen knight. I remember the time he took me fishing. It was a cold August morning, the mist hung over the lake as we took our place by an opening in the reeds. I remember the smell of the bait. Grandpa said the fish loved it, but I hated it. It made me gag. I couldn’t feel my fingers or my nose, but I didn’t care, I was going to catch a fish so the cold was worthwhile. Grandpa showed me all the tricks and told me about the fish and their colours and behaviours. Tears flooded my cheeks when we caught nothing. Grandpa pulled me close and whispered in my ear something I will never forget. He said that I am the best fisherman I remember the old carpets, the black and white photographs lining the walls. I can almost hear the birds in springtime, with the little fountain and the little rabbit. I remember how Grandma always hid the rabbit in a new place each time we came and my brothers and I searched throughout the garden, between the red and yellow roses, behind the big tree, until we found it. I still remember the rabbit, it was made of clay and was brown with black eyes. I always believed that at night the rabbit would come alive. Only at Grandma and Grandpa’s house could such things come true. But now, twenty years later. I stand here, nothing but memories to keep me company. A feeling of great sadness, but also thankfulness comes over me. I am my parents’ parents’ child and forever will be. STIAAN OLIVIER (10C) he has ever seen and that the fish will bite again another time. Then I was alright because my grandpa said I was the best.

VERGIFNIS “Dis alles sy skuld, Ma! Hoe kon hy dit aan ons gedoen het?” Ek sal nooit vergeet hoe ek in die pikdonker nag in die middel van die veld voor ons huis gestaan het nie. Ek en my ma het so pas ’n vreeslike uitval gehad en ek het ’n hele spul woorde vol haat en oordeel gesluk, want dit het geen invloed meer op my gehad nie. Ek het die deur so hard agter my toegeklap dat dit soos ’n geweerskoot in die middel van die nag geklink het. Ek was gevul met haat, hartseer en woede wat ek nie in woorde kon beskryf nie. Daar was ’n vuur van haat wat binne my gebrand het. Ek het my pa verantwoordelik gehou vir my ma se drankprobleem en my misrabele lewe en vir die slegte besluite wat ek gemaak het. In my slaapbroek het ek in die koue gestaan met trane van frustrasie en woede wat deur my liggaam ruk. Ek het opgekyk en al wat ek kon sien, was die miljoene sterre wat uit die hemel skitter. Ek het bedaar en begin bid. In my stilwees is my veglus geblus en die waarheid het in my gedagtes kom lê. Ek was in ’n valstrik vasgevang wat my stewig vasklem. Ek moes my pa vrylaat uit die tronk van skuld, anders sou ek hom moes saamdra vir die res van my lewe. Ek wou gehad het dat my pa moes weet watter hartseer hy veroorsaak het. Ek het soos ’n dwaas vir hom gewag om vir my verskoning te vra. Ek het op daardie aand besluit om my pa vry te stel. Om hom nie meer vasgevange te hou nie, want anders gaan ek nooit vry wees nie. Ek het op my fiets geklim en na my pa se huis gery met ’n gevoel van opwinding, maar ook onsekerheid. Ek het teenoor my pa en sy nuwe vrou erken dat ek wou gehad het dat dit sleg met hulle moes gaan sodat hulle my pyn en hartseer kon ervaar, maar dat ek verkeerd was. Ek het gekom om vir Pa te vergewe. My pa en sy vrou was spraakloos en in trane. My pa het opgestaan en sy hand na my uitgesteek. Ek het my pa se hand gevat en geweet dat, met dié handdruk, al die swaar gewigte van my skouers afgegooi is. Ons het mekaar in die oë gekyk en geweet dat, met die handdruk, die saad van vryheid geplant is. STASS NEL (12D)

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BOISHAAI 151 YEARS