I remember the incandescent light on the wall beside your bed that cast its glow on ragged red brown bricks in the evening. I remember your lips speaking wisdom so gently as you breathed in heavily and longed for eternity. I remember the woolly blankets that covered your neck. I remember your vivid description of the sound of music and the Kalahari Desert.

I remember you - wrinkled eyes and a tired heart in a sullen chest, letting go slowly of the world forever. I remember the music drifting down the passage from your old black radio to my room. I remember how you sat devotedly adoring its melodies, and humming along until sleep overcame you with its own rhythm.
I remember the smell of your scrambled eggs and fried tomatoes in the early morning; Sizzling in the kitchen. The pap and butter you always made us with a little honey.

I remember the cold, flat, dark, grey tiles on the floor that somehow always had a chip somewhere. The whitish, faded scribbles in the tiles were a constant repetition. I remember knitted socks fitted onto my feet after a hot bath in the middle of winter. I remember sitting on your lap as you told me strange and wonderful stories of things and places I could only imagine. I remember fresh, creamy milk warmed up in the oven, along with that home made honey in a skinny tall glass before bed. It would soothe my fears and lull me to peaceful sleep.

I remember the bright kitchen light lording over the small space and the bugs zooming about it in the summer night as we sat and spoke about God and the meaning of life. Coffee at two in the morning along with some laughter in those old, squeaky, white chairs with the silver rims always seemed a good idea in the holidays.

I remember the white wooden shack with the top half of the door open. It would squeak when I opened it, and the floors would acknowledge my every step as I entered your tiny carpeted sanctuary. I remember the smell of old books and oil paint, and the corner you laid out for me to join in your gift once. You would disappear for hours in there, and wash your hands with turpentine before dinner.