by Rene Pietersen

Created on: August 12, 2009

In Cornwall, when the sky is low and the rain is soft and steady, people speak of it being a sad day today and the sky is crying. Today we were a long way from Cornwall, but the sky over Braamfontein was low, leaving no gap between heaven and earth. The clouds hung as mist. The rain didn't have to fall. The wet brickwork of the walls, the dripping roof tiles, the down turned leaves and the heavy branches of trees and bushes pointed downwards with the simple weight that moisture gives.

As we waited, the three of us close together in the damp porch way, breathing the humid air in and out so that there seemed to be no barriers between our selves and the space that we breathed, so the smoke, heavy and sad itself, fell amongst the droplets in the air around us. Fell and hung above the tombstones and the memorials. Fell onto the shinning paths and grass and the plants and the cut flowers. A smokey, moist air, rich with cremated life. As we waited.

There wasn't much to say between the three of us, though we tried hard through our mutual sadness and soft gentle anxiety to find ways to share our feelings, often and in contrasted ways, whilst we tried harder still each not to gag on our memories and grief.

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