Ma

Jean Meiring

Mothers come in a wealth of shapes and forms. I realised this truth early on. In our house, when I was growing up, everyone was a mother. Besides me, of course.

But let me start this story — the story of my mother — at its most natural beginning: her death.

Funerals have a knack of opening up secrets, exposing to the harsh light of day truths untold, like babies brought kicking and screaming into the world.

And so it was with my Ma as well.

I had followed her coffin with weary, tongue-tied feet. The day was fittingly grey. Rain confettied down, as if someone upstairs had got the party arrangements wrong.

It was a relief to get home and trundle into the long, narrow living room, which earlier had been the porch. When Auntie Rosie moved in — without Joey and Martha — we’d lost our porch. The living room became her bedroom; the porch, our new living room.

This white tomb was glassed up against the elements. Granny filled it with glaring bright colours, and hung swinging tassels above the door leading into the house.

The funeral gloom which had encircled us gradually cleared as we sank into the soft benches which primly faced each other — a bit like in a certain type of railway carriage.

Auntie Rosie was the first in and made a dash for the amber glasses of sherry that’d been placed in rows on the furthest table while we were out. Smiling, she brought me one. I was only eight and downed it as if it were filled with fizzy pop.

Uncle Joe had brought along Joey and Martha. Your Ma was so fond of them, as if they were her own, Granny had said.

At first they seemed scared of their mother. It must have been several months since Uncle Joey had dropped Auntie Rosie off, screaming and sobbing one pitch dark night.

Their disquiet thawed as she knelt beside them and whispered the silly rhymes she’d written for them when they were babies. Soon Joey nagged his mother outdoors to play catch with him. Martha and I were set upon remaining perched on the edge of the bench, nibbling at our squares of icing-laden cake. Joey had gulped his down in a tick.

The quiet words of condolence soon became louder, heartier. A clutch of people were standing at the sherry table, bursting forth into gales of laughter. It was as if Ma was already forgotten — a mere handful of hours after the damp black soil had pelted down on her, covering her forever.

This was how it’d always been. When people came over and the heat of talk and laughter rose, Ma would cower in a soft chair in the corner. Her hands would lie intertwined in her lap like gnarled roots. Her eyes, as large as pigeon eggs, would look to me for reassurance.

    “What can I do, Ma?” I’d whisper at her side, while the comets of conversation whizzed about our heads.

Ma had always been sickly. From the day she was born, Granny told me, as if to warn me against her. As if to prepare me for that inevitable day.

Soon after she’d entered the world Ma had become troubled, Granny said one bedtime. From the beginning she’d been too fragile for this hard place. She needs special love and care. Which only you can give, she said.

Ma had attended the village school. Like I do now. But she had never learnt to cope with the brittle, bruising words the other kids hurled at her. She didn’t realise they did it to one another too. For her, they were too terrible.

When Ma was thirteen Granny decided it’d be wiser if she were taught at home. Things went better then. She’d sit quietly by the kitchen table and read, mouthing the words almost joyfully as her ease and confidence grew.

In the afternoons Granny’d teach her to knit, and even crochet. She became an expert with the needle, Granny said, making herself the prettiest frocks, edged with lengths of dainty lace.

She’d page through Granny’s magazines, looking at the apple cheeks of the actresses and singers who lay sprawled upon their pages like strangely-feathered birds from some faraway land.

Grandpa was still alive then. After dusk, when he returned from the fields, he’d sit with her and Auntie Rosie on the porch, listening to songs over the wireless. Enquiring what they’d learnt that day.

He died suddenly, Granny said. When he first heard of the pregnancy. It was too much for him. The shock and shame of it all. The betrayal. The doctors had said it was impossible. He was convinced of this.

Yet Ma had me. I was her child. There was no doubting that, whatever the doctors had said. I was a very special gift for Ma, Granny said — a gift which brought her great joy.

    “You don’t know, do you?” Auntie Rosie challenged me later that night after the funeral guests had left. After Uncle Joe had taken Joey and Martha away again, and after Granny had gone to bed with a soft “Goodbye, my boy” kissed onto my forehead.

Auntie Rosie was lying lifelessly on her bed. Her legs were slightly apart, her one foot trailing off towards the closet. Her words came thick and fast, falling over one another.

    “She wasn’t really your Ma. You’ve realised that, haven’t you?”

All I heard was the wind in the wiry trees outside the window.

    “Granny gave you to her. Granny knew your Ma’d never have children of her own. Knew how much she wanted to be like everyone else. Like the pretty girls in the magazines, with husbands and children and a happy home of her own.”

Droplets ran down Aunt Rosie’s cheeks and plopped onto the bed. I nodded blankly, not knowing what she meant.

    “Granny became pregnant when she was forty-two. Grandpa was sure it was another man. The doctors had snipped him. Granny said you were a gift. You were there to look after your Ma. To care for her. No one else could.”

Her body shook. Her grief was as much for herself as for my Ma.

Later I sat alone in the darkened porch. The sheets of glass shimmered in the moonlight. The house was as still as a mouse.

Goodbye Ma, I mouthed. A smile spread gently across my face.

Jean Meiring is doing a post-graduate degree in Law.

LitNet: 05 May 2004

Have your say! To comment on this piece write to webvoet@litnet.co.za, and become a part of our interactive opinion page.

to the top

© Kopiereg in die ontwerp en inhoud van hierdie webruimte behoort aan LitNet, uitgesluit die kopiereg in bydraes wat berus by die outeurs wat sodanige bydraes verskaf. LitNet streef na die plasing van oorspronklike materiaal en na die oop en onbeperkte uitruil van idees en menings. Die menings van bydraers tot hierdie werftuiste is dus hul eie en weerspieël nie noodwendig die mening van die redaksie en bestuur van LitNet nie. LitNet kan ongelukkig ook nie waarborg dat hierdie diens ononderbroke of foutloos sal wees nie en gebruikers wat steun op inligting wat hier verskaf word, doen dit op hul eie risiko. Media24, M-Web, Ligitprops 3042 BK en die bestuur en redaksie van LitNet aanvaar derhalwe geen aanspreeklikheid vir enige regstreekse of onregstreekse verlies of skade wat uit sodanige bydraes of die verskaffing van hierdie diens spruit nie. LitNet is ’n onafhanklike joernaal op die Internet, en word as gesamentlike onderneming deur Ligitprops 3042 BK en Media24 bedryf.