Seventeen days after I arrived back in South Africa to visit my parents for a few months, my father died of a heart attack on the kitchen floor of their home. Between myself and two sets of paramedics, we tried for over an hour to resuscitate him and bring him back.
To no avail.
It’s strange how things can look so different after one singular moment in time.
That spot on the kitchen floor where he lay haunts me at the oddest moments. I walk over that exact spot many times during any given day but at the strangest times, I’ll look over and allow myself to ponder it for an instant before tearing my attention away and pushing whatever surfaced back down.
The truth is, I do not feel safe in my current environment to grieve, therefore, it will have to wait until I get back home.
Twinsies
One of the biggest changes I have noticed since the loss of my father is the pride I now have in looking like him.
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My father was a lovely man, willing to help anyone, kind, and a good provider for his family.
I am the spitting image of my father. So much so, that when I was a wee babe, people knew I was his child just by looking at me. Stand the two of us next to each other and there was no denying his gamete won the fertilization battle in creating me.
I hated it.
I’m not going to delve into why. It involves the usual aspects of being a woman in a patriarchal world of desired features and female beauty. Regardless of the reasons, I struggled with it for a long time.
I don’t struggle with it anymore. I’m proud of it now.
Maybe it’s because I know that as long as I live, I have more of him than anyone else. He lives in my eyes, the one feature I’m grateful for, and his nose, the one feature I’m not.
Wherever I go in this village, people stare at me in that uncanny way they do when they feel they know you from somewhere. After they realize I’m his daughter they’re astounded by the similarity. Many search my face for any traces of a man they loved and admired while telling me how much he is missed.
The Red Menace
I’m also driving around in my dad’s 1994 red Toyota Corolla 160i GLE.
The people in this town know that car. Most want to buy it as it is one of the most sought-after vehicles in the country, akin to the old Volkswagen Beetle. My father took exceptional care of his car and people look at it longingly as I zip by.
He buzzed around the village in the Red Menace, a cheerful hello for everyone he met and a good dose of conversation about his goings-on — whether they were interested or not. I always assumed that it irritated people as much as it drove his family crazy but I’m finding out it didn’t.
People miss it. I love that.
I wear his clothes
When I arrived in South Africa in mid-March, I was on a world trip. That all changed when my father passed and I decided to stay until the end of the year to help out.
A year plus of planned travel through all four seasons and only one piece of luggage and a carry-on resulted in me packing minimal warm clothing.
I had planned to buy a few winter items once in South Africa and then leave them here as I continued into warmer climates. I have now taken some of my father’s clothes for the winter season.
I walk around in his blue sweater. It makes me feel closer to him.
On a visit in 2021, I brought him two t-shirts with Canada emblazoned on the front. I’m wearing them too.
The Mountains
We sprinkled my father’s ashes on the Danie Miller Trail up against the Hottentots Holland Mountain Range. He loved that mountain and I look at it five times a week as I pound the conveyor belt of the treadmill at my local gym.
I still can’t bring myself to head back up there.
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My folks’ house is also up against these mountains and looks down on the village and nearby towns, as well as over the inlet of False Bay and out to the back side of the famous Table Mountain as it looms large over the city of Cape Town.
To me, the shape of this mountain always resembled a dead Who from Whoville and I used to smile as I gazed at its facade while pottering around the village. Now I just see the shape of my father lying on a gurney in the funeral home when I went to say goodbye.
It was his silhouette I saw as the sun set on Father’s Day a few weeks back.
The mountain will never again be a warm memory.
Dad’s Final Gift
In his final act, my father fixed something that concerned him deeply — he brought his daughters back together after a fractured relationship.
My sister and I have always been very different people. There are very few things we have in common. I look like Dad, she looks like Mom. I resonate with North American culture, she’s deeply entrenched in British customs. From the choice of movies to music, fashion sense to job choice, life values to life goals, we couldn’t be more different.
But we are united in the love of our Father.
I took the lead on the day Dad died and it was me who called my sister with the news. It was me who told her in no uncertain terms to return to South Africa after his passing, and it was me that she found the most comfort in during her month back “home.”
In a million years, I would never have anticipated that. It was Dad’s final gift to his girls and one for which I am eternally thankful.
All I do know at this moment in time is, I now have an angel watching over me. One who would move heaven to help me in any way he could.
Please feel free to buy me a coffee if you like what you read.