An old Beatles song about a blackbird using its broken wings to "fly off into the light of a deep dark night" has been churning in my head for days on end.
I live alone. I work alone too and have endured my second round of self-isolation - meaning solitary confinement. It took great effort to retain some grip on normality during those lonely weeks. I tried adhering to some sort of structured routine. And mostly I managed, but there were days that sloppily slipped one into the other.
On the good days, I faithfully attend to the smaller rituals of life: rising with the dawn alarm, forcing myself to make the bed, shower, do my hair and put some colour on my lips. I stroke the dog's ears and she faithfully wags her tail. It knocks a gentle rhythm against the cupboard door. "Shall we make a little music, the two of us?" I ask. "You do the drums; I'll play the pennywhistle."
Together we go down to the kitchen. While I fill the kettle, she waits in rapt attention until I fill her bowl. I drink my coffee in silence. Having rinsed the mug, I pick up her leash and smile at her performing pirouettes on her hind legs.
In the park behind my house the mist still lurks among the bare bones of the late winter trees. The dog runs off after elusive smells, disappears in the direction of the river. I walk underneath the drowsy limbs of large gum trees, brooding on the day ahead.
Back home, I brew some tea and switch on my computer. The dog settles at my feet, drifts off to restless dreams with muffled barks. I try to write but fail to focus. The sentences keep on crumbling, the words absconding from the job at hand. By midday I give it up and decide to pack a basket. It's for my mother in the old age home: Lemon Creams, a banana and cheese spread wedges - Cheddar, her favourite.
I feel excited. Today will be the first time in weeks that I get to see her - even though from a distance and through the iron bars of a palisade fence. The dreaded virus has been active among the residents. Those who did not succumb were forced into isolation in their rooms. It must have been unbearable, especially for those whose faculties have long gone - like Mom.
The dog strains against her leash on our walk there. "Patience, silly," I chide her. "Ouma's not going anywhere."
It's a long wait at the gate. Then I see Mom emerging from the front. She looks smaller, more crooked, pushing her walker hesitantly towards me. It was her 95th birthday a few days ago, but she was blissfully unaware of it
A carer halts her a few steps from the fence and puts a mask over her face. Old mother yanks at it. "What is this thing?" she asks, disoriented. "We must wear it, Ouma," comes the gentle answer. "That's just how things are now."
I call out to her from the fence and she looks up. I wave eagerly. She nods back politely.
"It's me, Mom!" I shout. "It's me!" She waves back uncertainly and looks at the carer who explains that it's her daughter. My mom looks again.
"Hey you," I call, "look what I brought for you." I wave the Lemon Creams. "Hello, it's me!" I call out my name and drop my mask so that she can see my face.
She looks from the carer to me. And looks again. Then there's a flicker in her eyes. She strains towards the fence. The carer tries to contain her, but she rams her with the walker and shuffles lightning fast towards me. I need to step away to keep our distancing intact.
"Closer," Mom calls and thrusts her arms through the bars, hands clutching helplessly at me. "Come," she pleads. "I'm not allowed, Mom," I answer lamely. "But I'll be back tomorrow. And the day after and every day after that."
"Kissy!" she calls, "come!" The carer gently calms her down and, meekly, Mom allows herself to be led back inside. We walk back home, the dog pulling at the leash again. "Behave," I scold.
"And quit the tears. Our little bird will take those broken wings and fly again. And whether to me, or straight up into heaven, she'll do so blessedly."
