Hey mum, if you're reading this

My mother has a bottle of (almost empty) perfume that my father bought her when they began dating (or something nostalgic to that effect) . It had a dark blue stopper and a scalloped shape bottle with the faded gold lettering that once said Shalimar by Guerlain with an amber liquid that smelled rich and like something dipped in Oriental spice. Its still in her cupboard somewhere ( I hope) Part of me feels like the wonderment of this bottle began my loveb affair with perfumes. My mother used a variety of perfumes that would cling to her when she got home from work as we rushed up to hug her and smell of a sweet fragrance that lingered in her hair. To me they smelled similar, all what I associated love and warmth to be. A safe smell that would hold you tight if you felt scared when nightmarish apparitions snuck into my young slumber.

I loved smelling the different scents that hung in the air as people hugged me ( this applied only to the perfumes and not the body odour that lingered, that didn't get any joy) or walked past. The overpowering cheap deodorant sprayed with zeal that burned my nostrils to the cloying sickly sweet perfumes that older women wore in excess, these became pet peeves. But I think the one person I loved being near because of their scent, was the woman who started this love of perfume and of the clean lines of good china plates. This woman who was the epitome of grace and elegance to me,who still is so beautiful to me.

I've repetitively said that it was abnormal for a seventeen year old to care about how well a crystal chandelier paired with the curtains of a lounge or how a tea set would be ideal for a brunch(even though I detest tea drinking). I blame my mum, who would smile through eating scrambled eggs that seven year old me, had emptied rosemary and thyme. I remember when we would sigh heavily about walking around the shops with plates and vases, saying that it was her second home while we waited to rush to a bookshop or toy store. Eventually I developed a love for these visits and now I walk into them before she does. I had wanted to be exactly like her, after all isn't that what most kids want to be?

I was insanely jealous of my baby sister, who everyone said looked like a carbon copy of her and I looked like my fathers parent (who, if truth be told, I didn't particularly want to look like . As good looking as they may have been in her youth - sorry Daddy, sometimes we just are inclined to want certain things). I wanted to be like her so I joined debating and public speaking(things she had excelled in when she was younger). I endured painful Saturday morning dance classes because she was very enthusiastic about having daughters who could be graceful Indian swanlike dancers. And then there was piano, which I enjoyed but wasn't passionate about, but the voice behind it all knew mum would like nothing more than having us play well. My sister succeeded in all these things. I left it to her , happy that she could make mum proud.

I don't write near her, I avoid letting her see my scrawl on a page because again, they've been a source of despair among my parents and teachers(the latter , has had to grow used to it with time). Its not something I could possibly be proud of, it's the bane of my existence to be honest. I never happy with handing anything in (regardless of how good the content may be) because they all look at me with some weariness and sigh. It stemmed from about ten years ago when the temp teacher called my mum in to say that I was a substandard pupil, that my work lacked care and suggested I had a learning issue , note this was about an 8 year old kid. Mum came home and was angry(probably at the woman but I think a little at me ). Whatever happened that hot afternoon shaped the rest of my life , not immediately but as I grew I would recall it. It wasn't that the woman made me sad but the thought that I disappointed my mother, that I would not be all she wanted me to be. This fear of being an embarrassment or failure in her eyes.

There's an Afrikaans poem by Antjie Krog called " Ma" , which I identified with. Of feelings of wanting to be a good daughter, good enough and being sorry. Apologetic for all the times our personalities clashed because we were so alike yet so different. I had developed a personality that contrasted hers , figuring that it would make up for not being all she wanted if I was my own person who achieved things that made her beam. Being the person who she may have been, thirty years ago.

Ten years on and it's my final year of high school, it's that same drive to make her proud, to prove that snooty woman wrong that motivates me to push through another hour of Biology when all I want to do is sleep. Yeah I should be "working for myself" but at the core of everything is that one maxim : Will she be proud? Will they be proud?

Hey mum, if you're reading this, I hope I can make you as proud as you make me.

Pearly wisps of the ocean and my left foot's mosquito bite

This mosquito bite on my left foot is distracting me from my train of thought that had sped along so well, just a moment ago. So is the soft jazz music that snakes from the television screen, to the couch where I fidget to kill the pest that is resting on my arms and legs at intervals. Its one of those warm nights where the air is heavy with the sounds of crickets and the humidity that clings to every food of your clothing. I'd like to amend that "warm" into a furnace of a night where the blessing of technology allows the air conditioner to comfort me with an icy rush directed to my face.

I would immerse myself in some cool water outside but my fear of frogs and jumping creatures petrifies me. And the idea of itchy eyebrows is unappealing as the insects that bite find the exposed parts of my body and my lonely swim would surely be ruined. So I remain inside trying to catch that delightful thought that slipped through my fingers like silky sand on a faraway shore. I hate when that happens, when thoughts run off and disappear into a frenzy of noises and pictures.

I digress, my initial thought was actually about traffic and some observations I have made in the past year or so, but this recollection if swimming has washed away all mechanical thoughts in favour of the element I most love. Water, where I am weightless and I can dance without having to bend to the laws controlling gravity. Like I used to when I was very small and took up dancing with ribbons and I would twirl in the air with them, like a bird. At least I felt like a little bird with my long navy ribbon , the same elation that I feel when I dive into the water. Those fractions of a second when you're mid-air and fear of the icy water is juxtaposed with the excitement of sliding through the cool cocoon of blue. It's the shout of joy before you land and the first bubbles of air that escape your lips as you surface that create the most wonderful sensation.

I almost always gasp in shock when people say they hate swimming, granted that people have different hobbies but what contends the soft ripples that dance as you move and sway or the salty curls that form in the jumping waves that make you move as one with the sea? They all link to my inner child and her love if splashing by the seaside with shells collected in buckets. The prettiest or the owns with the most desirable texture stayed in my pocket to hold or display in a tiny wooden box. Beach trips were(and still are) my favourite things to do, sitting on the shore and waiting for the waves to rush up the shore and caress my toes.

The number of times I go to the beach have dwindled to just passing the beach and the expanse of ocean that just just a stones throw from the road I go along every morning. Watching the golden splashes of sun on the calm blue-grey water that only disappeared when the clouds drooped to kiss the morning waters.

My love of water is romanticized with the pearly wisps of childhood laughter that mingle with my never ending awe of the beauty of the sea. And if I come back to my opening, my left foot still itches from that mosquito bite but I don't mind as much anymore.