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THE GREYTON POST
NOV /DECEMBER 2025
The Greyton Cliffhanger Part 2
sentences. An implode of sense needed bewitch to me. The day dwelled on politely and it felt undue to her. Walking in nature with dad had always piqued my curiosity, he could just about identify every little speck of a bloom from far, each swoosh of green as we moved – the littlest beings hiding among the wealth of stems and flowers and bushes seemed to whisper to him. He was certainly a whole half of her – for nature talked pleasantly to both their hearts. It healed the fast-paced breaths of yesterday and tomorrow. The seemingly cool air licked up worries and the light bowed with presents such as the flutters of hope, and an escape from having to converse - rather urging me to notice - a nudge to rest my unmistakably loud
I am seated on the tattered brown leather bakkie seat of childhood, begging for him to hurry – in my mind – with our hot drinks. But he never hurries, never swops the old for new. Mornings were easy for her; she could ignore the pangs of feelings within her. Dull the words waiting in her throat with the heat of a tea. Pretend to be sleepy, even though she had always been an early-riser – the birds signaling her to climb up their trees. Coming to a complete standstill, again - father filled the pickup with provisions. Nostalgia was rancid in the air. It was Summer, again. This time the heat condensed with an unfamiliar stifle of memories I just wanted to let go of...
thoughts. Splodges of the past still linger out there and the newest of blubs wanting to burst as if wanting to get Summer over with. Misery had obviously been self-induced for a while now. Another rickety riddle between the two of them to swing over the shoulders . The truck held tight wounds. I delve into familiar meekness as the tears further impale my wild honey eyes. I am seated in the bakkie , again - sweat stinging upon my arms and back from our brisk walk. Ever secretly trying to forget how many years the father figure, now sitting beside me, had ignored me. Had chosen not to see me. Now, I felt old, and he felt knowingly unknown to me.
Shani De Villiers
A s I put in a little effort to open a rusty window in the room dad had left almost bare, burnt sparks of eagerness fly through me – even a touch solace races through me – as the trees grow with the sunlit sparkles of the day ahead. Sore fingers were worth it - for the ache of fresh air.
To be continued...
I started to eke out semi-okay
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