As if to say Shhh...

She drew her hand up and pressed a finger to her lips as if to say, shhh. As if she knew I did not actually have the words, but would butcher a response anyway. Death is a dance we all are learning, but we must never ever try to explain it to someone. Words cannot do that. 

I nodded somberly and dabbed my mother's face with the sleeve of my suite. I straightened up and lifted my chin. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, I pleaded with myself. My mother knew many things though she had not been told them. She knew when I noticed her tears I would feel the need to speak, to try and describe away the dance of death. 

The number of people at the funeral service astonished me. Papa Bruce was a wonderful man and a father to me when I lived in South Africa. Though he only visited the States a few weeks in the year for work. This great multitude of people was a simple testament to Papa Bruce’s kind character. 

I stared hard at the glossy oak casket, it was strange to think that all of Papa Bruce fit into that small brown tree. All of him except his most prized possession, his greatest love, his only child, his daughter Tacunda. 

Tacunda and I were practically raised together from birth until I left the country. I remember her well. She is a world that my mind loves to wander to. Though I have not spoken with her since the day I left, she is my closest friend, the love of my youth. 

Sometimes I feel like my time in South Africa was a dream just because of her. With time and distance she now seems so much larger than life.

 Every morning we would sneak to the forest at the crack of dawn. Before the sun warmed the first blade of grass in the yard, we’d already be halfway into the bush behind our homes. Through the tall wheatgrass, down the steep hill into the thick of the trees, we’d follow the sound of the flowing water until we reached the tiny clearing by the brook. And in the yawn of the morning, we’d run through the trees, dance with the breeze, and babble with the brook.

After school, we’d struggle through homework problems, share leftovers from dinner, lighten up each other's chore load and then venture out again. 

I’d tell her stories. I’d jump on large rocks and crouch behind fallen trees to detail the narrative. Whatever story her heart needed for that time, that night, that moment- a laugh, an adventure, a hero to relate to, a mystery to investigate- whatever it may be, I’d make one up. And these words I’d string together into stories became a world to wander to when she went back to her quiet home. I established kingdoms, raised characters, and planted whole worlds out of the dances of my tongue and vibration in my voice, through sheer imagination while she was my muse for it all. 

The night I left for the States, we found ourselves balanced between the protruding roots of the tall, strong Baobab tree. It was the latest we’d ever stayed out and we were both peering up at the sky.  The stars speckled night and reflected in the water that flowed in the brook that meandered through the forest. I remember the last conversation we shared. It often replayed in my head.

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“Who will tell you stories when I’m gone Tacunda?” I wondered innocently.

“No one, there's no one I’d care to listen to,” she concluded. I looked hard at her. I found the little dipper in her eyes.

“Well, when I come back from America I’m going to tell so many new stories of things I know, and the things I don’t know,” I replied.

“Kamili,” she didn’t look at me, almost like she was waiting for a reply from heaven.

“Yeah, Tacunda,” I whispered and followed her gaze to the sky.

She turned her head to face me. “When you come back from America, could you start with the things you don’t know,” her voice faltered.

“I will tell you everything,” I vowed. I felt like I swore an oath that all the forest bore witness. I took her cold hand in mine and for a long time we didn’t say anything. We never were this quiet but I felt like we said so much in the silence.A few more moments pass and she shot up from next to me.

“The next time I see you Kamili, you’re going to be as tall, and wide as this Baobab tree,” she patted the trunk.”

I smiled big and jumped up too, “Yeah!” I called out. I hopped the brook and stood by the biggest Dragon Blood Tree I could find. It has always been my favorite tree. All its leaves gathered tightly in a half circle at the very top. I thought it modeled the prettiest afro, the kind that royalty had, the kind one would call a crown.

“And the next time I see you, your hair will be as big and heavy as this Dragon Blood tree,” I beamed.

She tried to wrap her arms around the trunk, her cheek pressed into the bark. “You are going to be so tall, I’m gonna have to jump just to hug you,” she hollered. 

“You are going to be so beautiful, I’m going to have to marry you, “ I hollered back and raced across the brook to her side.

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That night I left for the airport. I remember boarding the plane and my backpack being so heavy. I remember my mother's tight grip on my wrist from security until we sat in our seats. As we took off, she told me to say, “goeienag suid afrika,” which meant goodnight South Africa.  She let me sit by the window seat. I fell asleep, but I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to. And when we were a few hours from Dallas, once the cusp of the American coastline crawled into the view of the plane window, she shook me fiercely.

“So jy gaan slaap in jou nuwe lewe?” she scolded. Was I going to sleep into my new life? She would never let me. She pointed at the land and told me to say, “Good morning America”. In my thick South African accent, I limped through the phrase as I did with all my English for the next few years. I thought english words were sharp and so I didn’t like to keep them in my mouth for too long. For the first few years the words tumbled in my mouth like wet clothes in a dryer. I was never sure if they were ready, but when they did leave my mouth, they always had to be ironed out.

I was 10 years old when I moved from the bush of South Africa to Dallas, Texas.

 Tacunda was the kind of girl who ran with the wind and never squinted in the sun. I thought about how she was now alone in that little house in the bush of South Africa, alone without Papa Bruce. The thought tormented me, I couldn’t keep my leg from shaking during the service and finally I couldn't keep my breath from doing it either.

My mother grabbed my arm, “Kamili,” she said softly. I almost jumped out of the pew, I was deep in my head. She was completely unphased from my reaction, “It’s time to go home,” she asserted. I realized what she meant immediately, we were going back to South Africa.

I left the country nine years ago and now I can't say I remember nine words. But I still packed my bags and boarded the plane bursting with anxiety and excitement. 

“When we landed, we were driving straight to Tacunda’s home. I will need to speak with her uncle, you can go find her,”. 

“Okay momi,” I was extremely nervous.

We arrived at her house in the evening. The sky was still pulling the blanket of night across the sun. Her house had always been neatly put together, but I could tell that weather and time had not treated its structure nicely. Once I step onto the ground, all nerves leave my body and I with jubilance. All I want to do is see Tacunda.

My mother bee-lines to the house. She is clothed in determination, I know I shouldn’t say anything.

“Momi, where is Tacunda,” I asked.

“I don’t know, check the back of the house.”

I crept behind the back wall of the shack.The wheaty grass bent to the side from the evening breeze. I let my gaze follow my feet. I was unsure of my steps. 

“Kamili!” The voice came from behind me, I turned swiftly.

“Kamili!” she barrelled towards me, her arms flying wildly the same way when we were kids.

I marveled at this girl. How beauty had seized her. The actual epitome of royalty and she now had a crown to match. She is my past, my childhood, my story. I sprinted towards it. I picked her up and she wrapped her legs around me. I spun her around and around and around. I felt the sun in the dead of night. She held me so tightly as if to make up for the nine years of 10,000 hugs, the 11,000 miles in between, the latter half of the hemisphere. I felt her shoulders shuttering.  I let go of her and held her hands smiling. Tears streak her cheeks. Her eyes were swollen, expected from days of weeping for her Father. She smiled though she was crying and crying through her smile and this and that and all there was between.

“I can’t believe it, I missed you,” I exclaim.

“Ek het jou gemis, jy het so lank geword,” she sobs. 

“Wha- what?” I question shaking my head.

She chokes on her words, “Ek het jou hier nodig gehad.” She lets go of my hand to wipe her eyes, “Jy het so lank geword,” she falters. I can see the weight of worry clouding her eyes.

“I don’t- I don’t understand,” I squint hard. Was lank “light" or was it ‘tall’? 

She takes my hand and leads me on the familiar path through the forest. Down the hill and into the forest. The brook babble growing louder until we came across the tree roots that protrudes from the ground created little seats we’d lean against. 

“Kamili,” she said slowly, letting go of my hand and hugging the bark of the tree. “You’re as tall as the Baobab tree,” the words rearranged themselves in real time. I remembered the night before I left. I remember her struggling to wrap her arms around the trunk. I understood her words unmistakably.

I beam, and my response appears so effortlessly in my head and out of my mouth. Her was as big as the Dragon Blood Tree. “Jou hare is so groot soos die Draakbloedboom,” I gushed.

I had so much more to say. Tears seem to fall out of my eyes. I hold her hands so tightly. So many stories and so many condolences,  I sputter nonsense. “ Ek is- ek is so… ek jamma uhhh,” I drop my head, searching it for a language so far lost. I grieve the loss of words, the loss of the world we once shared. I tried again to tell her I was sorry for her hurt. “Ek so jamma-hei,” I faltered. 

She watches quietly as I stammer, her face lit ever so slightly by the moon. I focus on her eyes, she understood me. She knew I was going to keep trying even though I did not have the words. She drew her hand up and pressed a finger to her lips as if to say, shhh.