Rosalinda’s loss struggled for a week to free itself from the shackles of shock. Its liberation came through the simple implements of knife, fork and plate. In their single setting on the table, they managed to shatter the silence of her grief.
‘Rosalinda! My Rose, my Linda! Which one do I love the most?’
Rosalinda quickened at the sound of Tom’s voice and carefully got up from where she was digging amongst the rows of vegetables. As she returned into the house, her feet crushed the peppermint patch and its perfume lingered around her.
‘Oh, there you are’, Tom said, when she appeared at the kitchen door.
His welcoming embrace carried the scent of wood and mingled with her peppermint to become the fragrance of that day’s love.
‘I have finished the chair that I restored for Milly and will drop it off before dinner. Let me just have a quick shower and then I’m off.’ ‘Well, while you have your shower I am going to finish in the garden.’
While Tom whistled his dirt away, Rosalinda’s apron pocket received her harvest of cherry tomatoes which would become their salad.
Tom’s goodbye kiss lingered on her lips long after the salad had been made. The sun setting through the kitchen window unwillingly retreated like a child wanting one last splash in the pool before going home. She postponed putting on the electric light which always seemed like an intruder in her secure world. The pasta sauce on the stove bubbled away a blissful ballad and she hummed along as she laid the table. Tom will be home any moment now and she retreated to the stoep where she could watch as the night dressed in stars and moonlight. This was her favourite hour. Insects darted around the light at the corner of the house. A sultry summer evening like this one was full of promises.
The familiar sound of Tom’s car stopping at the gate became the siren before the explosion of her world. Gun shots reverberated through her soul and became a continuous ringing in her ears. She heard doors slamming, shouts and screeching tires. “No! No! No! Please God, No!’
Too many highjackings, too many people dead. As she ran towards the gate, the advancing abyss overwhelmed the retreating hope. She found Tom lying on his side upon the gravel. The light in his eyes retreating. She cradled his head in her lap. Like a vulture, life without him loomed over her. She could not let him go. Long after the medics declared him dead she sat next to his body on the stretcher.
‘Rosalinda’, let me take you inside.’
Her world was fragmented. Shards of images appeared and disappeared. Unintelligible voices filled the air. Her body was taken inside. There was a cup of coffee in her hands. It became an obstacle. She put the cup down. Her head bowed prayerfully, but continued all the way down until resting on the red stain on her forearm. She closed her eyes and the voices around her advanced and retreated. For a moment she was a little girl again, lying on the back seat of her parents’ car, sleep creeping up on her and the sound of car tires and voices advancing and retreating.
Coldness lurked on the empty space of the bed next to her. A predator ready to pounce. The sleeping pills dragged her away from consciousness and before the remembrance of wood and peppermint could reach her heart, sleep conquered.
A ringing in her ears woke her up. Her arm was too heavy to lift the telephone. She was dragged back to sleep. The sound of a gunshot rang in her ears and rudely jerked the blanket of sleep away. She was exposed. She fled back to the drugged arms of sleep. A ringing in her ears woke her up. The doorbell. Faint voices. The door of the room opened like an abyss.
‘Here’s breakfast, dear. Let me help you’.
The familiar and soothing voice became the dressing on the gaping and fatal wound in her heart. She tried to swallow. There was a lump in her throat. It became an obstacle. She left it there. Nothing could pass.
She was lost in the maze of time. People came and went. Police; family; friends and again police. All of them flooding her with their emotions. Anger, so much anger. Tears and soothing voices became her crutches as she forced her broken self through the rituals of choosing hymns, writing a eulogy and preparing for the final farewell. She was so tired. At night his cold pillow kept her awake. Tom’s funeral was too soon for Rosalinda.
The abyss at her feet was eternal. The dry and dusty earth was hungry. She was choking; suffocating. The abyss devoured the wooden coffin. Her life was left desolate. Returning home she closed her eyes and rested her head against the car window. Her universe had become mute. Her devastation threatened to escape captivity, but the lump in her throat secured its prison. Nothing could pass.
At the house voices advanced and retreated. Words fell helpless into the void that separated. Nothing they said made a difference. The people in her house did not belong there. They became obstacles. She dismissed them.
It was a relief to surrender sympathy. She walked about in the house; a strange place now where pain and memories lay in ambush amongst familiar objects. Her body, unable to recognize death, demanded food. She laid the table. The single setting lay there accusing her. It became an obstacle. She needed to remove it. She bent over and slowly surrendered to the floor. She released her sorrow past the lump in her throat.
Rosalinda’s cry was that of a new born babe.