Dear Me
I haven't been a good friend to my friends. I've been so up my own arse with my own problems and defending myself left and right until there's no-one left in sight.
Everyone's dead. My Ouma and Oupa. Granny and Granddad. Mom and Dad. Eleanor's Mom (she was a sweetie pie) and Dad (he didn't like me, he knew a weak character when he saw one). All those nights at their place listening to “Just a Minute" hoping that her folks would go to bed soon and drinking boiled milk coffee. Jesus that was nice, but too rich to be healthy I'm sure. They had a swimming pool built in the back yard. I saw it again recently on Google Earth and the little shack behind the house where Eleanor did her pottery. I also finally found our high school (It's called something different now, that's why it was more than usually difficult to find on Google). We were high school sweethearts there. It all began on a balcony overlooking the quadrangle. We were doing a group commerce assignment after school and stepped out for some air, both leaning on the balustrade and I put my hand on hers and she didn't take hers away and we just kept staring ahead of us with our hearts in our mouths. She was a folk singer and a ballroom dancer talented up to the hips. I treated her shabbily, even lately when she got in touch with me I let the discourse trickle to a standstill. I just can't deal with people and what they need. And yet I think they're wonderful. But they're just not me, rubbish that I am. Where is my life?
The hand that held hers is very different now.