The Gate

THE GATE PART I: THE ENDING The squeak of the gate She’s back with the dogs. The squeak of the gate She’s back from the doc’s. The squeak of the gate She’s on her way out. Then a squeak of the gate She’s lied her way out!!! One last night we are together We love and touch each other. Sleepless. We know it’s forever And in the morn it‘ll be over. By sunrise she’s weak And we must take her back. And she hears a last squeak Of the gate to Red and Black. The squeak of the gate. It’s with her dogs that I talk At a quarter to eight Off for their Sunday walk. Sombre footsteps at nine. A chilling squeak of the gate. It’s my children to tell me the time She died was a quarter to eight!! The gate squeaks all day, Friends share our grieving. And now we put into play Pre-made plans for her passing. PART II: FAREWELL It must be a chipboard box. “I just want the cheapest coffin.” “Bury me not ’neath soil and rocks,” She’d always requested cremation.

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Now it’s a double ordeal to face ’Cause the main crematorium is “Bloken”. We are offered an alternative place, One used by those of the Hindu religion. The décor is pink and it’s stark and bleak. The attendant says “I’ll show you the oven.” It’s a must to confront although we feel weak Looking at what’ll consume our loved ‘un. C-day is Wednesday for family and Pastor ‘She’s’ ahead of us there in her enclosed space. Lip trembling I enter the chamber with pink plaster. I touch the lid and sense the chill of her hidden face. A prayer of committal “….. ashes to ashes.” Begin? First silence, last touch of the box. Turn, Nod to the man, flicks the switch to move her in A roller squeaks as via the ‘gate’ ‘She’ goes to burn. It’s only a body, I remind myself turning my back To slope away as Peta-Ann takes my arm. Next to Tuks to lecture a class, it’s a therapy pack. Incongruously I pray the consuming flames will cause no harm. I’m in a private hell, knowing I let her burn. Had death really taken a grip or was she merely asleep? Was it post-mortem murder that now prevents her return? Deep is the ‘guilt’ that envelops me as I weep. Next trauma is greeting ‘Her’ ordained ‘return’. “Not in the flesh”, I sob as I wait for the squeak of the gate. ‘She’ comes in a wee cardboard box, her virtual urn. I put out my hands and clutch the ashen form of my mate. PART III: MEMORIAL Ere the Reaper squeaked through our gate We knew the first to go would be my wife And agreed to find a means to celebrate Not her end, nor our destined meeting, but her life As her sands ran out we had fixed the date. For thirteen dark nights after the fateful rattle. Of family and friends, fifty’s our estimate, Her Pastor agrees we’ll meet in Kingsmead chapel

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But on memorial-day the chapel flows over. There’s a hundred more than fifty Including faces who had since long ago known her And from Pretoria my colleagues a plenty. Brave children stand before the crowd And pay tribute in eulogies that they tearfully tell. The father is, and the mother would, be proud. Then the granddaughter sings a haunting farewell. One wish remains, but there’s no rush “Place my ashes atop the gorge That looks down on Kirstenbosch Where my spirit a renewed bond will forge.” PART IV: THE SCATTERING To the Cape where we wed does the family repair Carrying their precious cardboard box By cable car to the top if the weather is fair. It isn’t. So her children climb up the rocks. Up Skeleton George to the top ‘She’s’ whisked There in a niche with a wondrous view They place most of her ashes where she had wished To rest in peace until we meet anew. Then down again to put what remain Alongside the stream by a giant pine, Where those who are frail can ‘talk’ again When they visit ‘Her’ from time to time. PART V: BALLOONS IN THE SKY On the twelfth of the twelfth the day is mild. Her birthday, celebrated by the family ring. There’s a helium balloon for each gran’child. Their messages are attached with string. They stand on the lawn as part of the plan, On command they let loose all seven, And each with a note for their gran, The pink and blue ‘loons float up to heaven.

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There is no longer a squeak of the gate Just a drop of oil to eliminate. But on Sundays, at a quarter to eight, I still hear the squeak of the gate.

Keith Beavon 12:x:2006

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