Everything is becoming misty or is it the hot chocolate…

““Everything is becoming misty or is it the hot chocolate that I am drinking going straight to my head, the company I am keeping. Listen to me. Politics etched into bone tasting tin roof ice cream. Politics seemed to have even reached the borders of the church. Carol reflected momentarily on this. Her church life was not something that she could share easily with Jerome. Discontent for so many is a temporary assignment of life. Carol would sometimes imagine her sister as a heatwave. Making waves in the la-la-land of faraway Johannesburg where she worked in media. It was a Sunday morning. Carol had washed her hair after church. Her brown skin was glowing. She remembered how they had called her mother the paper tiger. Carol remembered her mother’s best Sunday rituals. Now it was just a walk-in history for her. She remembered how her mother declared the chicken bird feast ready for celebration. How they all gathered around her. Glimpses of her. What does the flicker of love feel like for her, Carol sometimes thought to herself? Carol wondered now to herself as she was nearing her mid-thirties what it would be like to have had those kids. Those children. To be called ‘mum’. Her skin porcelain.””

— Abigail George