For Shaheed Parker

The veins on my hands are as pronounced as the swollen rivers of Temburong during Monsoon season. It looks almost angry as it snakes it way down to my mom's fingers. Fingertips seek out surfaces, hard and soft ones are welcomed. These hands have been devoid of human touch for a while now. I rub fingertips together enjoying the feel of soft warm skin. I stroke the 2 lines // between heavy brows willing it away.

I wonder what he'll think when he sees me again? Insecurity settles over me like a weighted blanket I'm suddenly very aware that my invisible years are just on the horison.

The Library Café is unusually quiet these last few days of school. The small space is lined with shelves weighed down by old things too important to throw away, but no longer necessary. I feel at home here amongst the heaps of stuff ready to be discarded. I ponder my life and my purpose because life has afforded me time, not demanding anything from me, leaving me to my unwelcomed thoughts. 

How easy it is for my mind when it is occupied by the demands of work. How difficult when it has freedom! I become unsettled as old thoughts creep into my quiet mind tugging at old wounds, exposing enduring insecurities. That old narrative of not being good enough, of being an impostor in my own life wondering how this girl from the Southern Suburbs of Cape Town, South Africa landed up here...now. Some call it manifestation, other visualisation, or ambition, others still call it luck; discounting the years of hard work and resilience, overlooking the perseverance and the grit it took; and the personal sacrifice ... 30 years of it!

I feel like leaping up out of my chair and dancing to Gloria Gaynor's, "I'll survive" because dayum, how many times do I need to rebuild this old ruin? How many times does  excavation have to be done to get to the bottom of these dilapidated old bones for renewal once again to set in? Is it even possible anymore to wipe away the destruction sown by negligent hands or harsh tongues or unjust systems?

Instead of dancing, I rush to my feet tipping over the plastic chair housing my tower of pink cushions. Headphones in, Gloria and I head out of the library and make our way up and down four flights of stairs. I might not be able to groove, but I can get my steps in for the day. My mood is instantly lifted, I hate sitting so this time of year is particularly torturous.

It hits home again, his absence, strange how I've grown accustomed to having him around again, he that knows how to love all the bits of me: the broken edges, the soft curves, the quiet and the loud... He loves me well, and does so patiently. He has crossed oceans to be with me. Great loves do that, they come to where you are and make you their home.

Our love is a wave, ebbing and flowing and taking us along for the ride. Sometimes it rushes to the shore, passion building; other times it crashes against rocks wearing it away; and at times it ripples softly softening my sharp places, and pulls me under, weightless and whole.

As I reach the top of the four flights of stairs for the second time, I lean against the silver railing looking out over the canal snaking its  way along the back of the school, and I think of love, of Gloria singing of being afraid and petrified, and I remember once again to be brave, to face my insecurities head on and I talk myself down easily enough. He is a mirror for me and all I see when he looks at me, is wonder.

I look down at my mother's hands once again, and remember another Shaheed from a different time who also knew exactly how to make all his girls understand this thing called love, teaching us that the best of men hold space for the women in their lives without needing to take from them.

Love is an art, and awakened men are the artists.

I dedicate this piece to the OG of men, my dad SHAHEED PARKER , and  all the Sha's in life (and the Kimi's), the men who know the value of loving their women right!

I am eternally grateful.