Laryn
That’s my name. The one my father chose for me.
He wrote this in Afrikaans — his native tongue — when I turned 21, and sent it to me in an e-mail. It was then, and still is now, one of the most beautiful things I had ever read. My English translation follows the original Afrikaans.
Laryn
Reuke skets my lewe op ‘n ongelyk-beligte doek van herinneringe. Van kleinwees op ‘n lemoenplaas met die vroegoggend reuk van bloeisels en die klam grond onder ‘n boom waar ek by my pa sit en koue soet tee drink … tot by die kliniese metaalreuk van die chemo wat in my are indrup waar ek in HF se kankersaal le.
Ek onthou die reuk van my kussing wat my vertroos as ek bang in my kamer le en luister na die dromme van die plaaswerkers en hulle rituele gesing wat die nag se stilte versteur. Die soel aand bring ook die reuk van die aartappelbos.
Die graad 1 klas se reuk van klei en potlood en Elize wat voor my sit, se hare laat my ‘n lekkerte ervaar wat ek nie dadelik verstaan nie.
Die mag van reuk laat my naar word nog voordat my volgende chemosessie begin. En ek dink ek kan nie meer nie.
My baba se kop ruik soos iets uit die hemel sou en laat die vreugde in my opwel en oorspoel in trane wat op haar hare val … en ek weet ek moet terug na die HF saal omdat ek weer die hemel wil ruik.
Die rooi gif laat my liggaam skud en die reuk van die kots deurboor my hart en wil my gees vermoor. Twee dae later vind ek vertroosing in ‘n middagslapie langs my baba se warm Johnson’s lyfie en soet asempie van nuwe lewe, en ek neem dit in want ek weet ek gaan dit nodig kry.
Sy was gister 21.
English translation:
Laryn
Aromas sketch my life on an unevenly lit cloth of remembrance. From childhood on an orange farm with the early morning scent of blossoms and the damp earth under a tree, where I sit with my father drinking cold sweet tea … To the clinical metallic smell of chemo as it drips into my veins as I sit in HF’s cancer ward.
I remember the comforting smell of my pillow as I lay scared in my room, listening to the drums and ritual chanting of the farm workers, breaking through the night’s silence. The temperate night also carries the scent of the potato bush.
The grade 1 class smells of clay and pencil, and of Elize (who sits in front of me). The smell of her hair lets me experience a pleasure that I don’t yet understand.
The power in a smell makes me nauseous even before my next chemo session begins. And I think I can’t take any more.
My baby’s head smells like something out of heaven would, and the joy wells up and overflows into tears that fall on her hair … and I know I need to go back to that ward at HF so that I can smell that heaven again.
The red poison makes my body shake and the smell of vomit bores through my heart and threatens to kill my spirit. Two days later I find comfort in an afternoon nap next to my baby’s warm Johnson’s body, and the sweet breath of new life. And I take it in because I know that I’m going to need it.
She turned 21 yesterday.
