I remembered on Saturday, forgot on Sunday, and upto now, still haven’t called. By some strange coincidence, however, I inadvertently wrote this, below, at the writers’ group meeting last evening. My mind must surely work in strange ways, if I can put something like this down on paper, and not realise what I had specifically decided to make a point to remember only the day before.
“Her night time ritual was always accompanied by her telephone, and the thoughts of her son who she missed very much. She wondered, as she scuttled around her little bedroom attending to the Ponds Face Cream bottle instructions, where he was, what he was doing, and whether he would come and see her this weekend. As she brushed her salt’n’pepper hair exactly one hundred times, she thought of the things that she would say to him if he would call: about old Sopi and her daughter’s truant husband, the lemon butter rulang cake that she had baked this afternoon (just like the old days when her son was little), and the leaking roof on the veranda that the baas had promised to fix two months ago, but which was still neglected, and still dripping.
She wondered if her son was awake. She had a momentary pang – a fleeting urge to dial his number – but she discarded this thought as she dropped the cotton buds into her bedside wastepaper basket. She had not seen him in months – the third of January, to be exact – and she had scarcely been able to chat to him on that occasion because he was in a hurry – an important meeting. Her son worked hard, she knew, even on Sundays, and even though this usually prevented her from spending more time with him, she forced herself to take comfort in the fact that she had raised such a diligently useful pillar of society.”
Strange, huh? I better go make a few calls now.