Thank you, Tamyka. I hoped the beauty would shine through this gloomy poem :). I certainly felt that way about our relationship.
He’d moved out of the mad city I call home after he retired, back to the land, the people and the rural town he called home, and to the house he had built there. Before it was built, when my siblings and I were little, sometimes we’d all come down to visit our grandparents here for Christmas. My mother’s parents lived in a village not far away and we’d visit them too (memories of those visits are part of this).
Sometimes, in recent years, when I needed a break I would go spend a weekend with him. He was a great storyteller and I remember many happy evenings having a drink and a chat on the veranda. One of those visits was over New Year 2016. He passed on the 12th of January, 2016. My sister and her family had visited him a few days before.
This poem is about ordained endings; the calm sorrow and solemn celebration that accompanies them. The rainy season ends in the dry harmattan, as it should. Years end, suns set, patriarchs pass, as they should.