Visit to my mother

The pink and red impatiens in her gardenlook artificial. And the lawn too green. But allof Rosebank and its malls look like that to me.I feel stranded among her fish forks and knives.The family photos have congealed inside their frames.

"Do you believe in evolution?" she asks. "That's a fact,"I say, "it's not a matter of belief." She doesn't like the factthat humans started off in Africa. "What aboutthe different races? And the different cultures? Howcan they work these things out from a pile of old skulls?"

"The Sunday Times has a black editor, hasn't it?""Yes," I say. "That's why it's full of sex," she says."It's always been," I say, "and anywaythose stories come from British newspapers.""It's even worse these days," she says,

"that's all they're interested in—sex and thieving."Her racism is savage as ever.I've come to see her because she's been ill.In intensive care. She could have died."They all pinch," she says.

"Last month they pinched a carfrom the parking garage." Pinch—that's the wordshe uses. She seems quite healthy nowexcept she has a pinched nerve in her spine,she has to use a wheelchair or a walking frame.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" she asks.She's eighty-six. "I believe in everything," I say."Well I don't," she says. "I've been so weary recently,so old, so tired. I do believe in God, though.I don't know why, because I'm cynical. Do you?"

"Believe in God? Sure, but I prefer the Dao.Less anthropomorphic." "Less what?" The TV is on muchtoo loud. "I have no talent," she says "I've never had a talent.""You've always been bright. And you're still alert," I say,"surely you have some redeeming qualities?"

"A sense of humour," she says, "it's helped me stay aroundthis long. And I like having happy people round me."Maki, her live-in nurse, seems happy (and she doesn't pinch).My mother's hair is getting thin. "God," I think, "I'm almost sixty,my hair is white too, and most of it is gone." I think:

"Fifty-nine years ago I was in this woman's womb."Her soup spoon clatters in her plate."Well I'll be gone soon, to the next world,and none of you will miss me." My youngestbrother Grant arrives, he's visiting her as well.

"Why did you go into psychotherapy?" he asks.We'd started talking about this yesterdaywhen he fetched me from the airport. My mother answers,"Therapy is when you pay a lot of money to someoneto tell you that you had bad parents."

"Things were a mess for me," I tell him. "My life justwasn't working." "But couldn't you work out your problemsand then leave them behind?" "Yes," my mother says, "we allhad to get on with it." "Maybe for you," I say to him, "For methe story had to be untangled first. It took a lot of time."

Next day she says, "You're right, I wasa bad mother. I was too anxious. I apologise.""That's okay," I say. "I accept your apology.""I go down on my bended knees," she says."Don't ruin it with sarcasm," I reply.

A meeting with her accountants. Her finances are healthy.Her car needs a service. She can't drive anymore butit's there for her three sons when we visit her in Joburg."You can't stop worrying about your chirrun," she says. That'sthe way she says it: Chirrun. I kiss her on the head goodbye.