Once upon a time there was a princess called Jessica aka me. The natural transition of my hair, from a short, blonde bob to long, brown locks reflects the different seasons of my life. I have the deepest dimples and rosy, red lips – a contagious smile. My hazel eyes tell a story.
I have fond memories of my childhood. I grew up on a farm – a wonderland. Bliss.
Those were the good, old days of summer. Climbing trees – my dad built a tree house in a mango tree for me. It had a foefie slide. I’d climb the tree just to slide down, forget the tree house. Playing on tractors, getting greasy. Fishing at the dam with the bamboo fishing rod my grandfather made for me – squeezing the phuthu I used as bait on to the hook and always getting my brother to take the fish I caught off for me. Eating sugar cane, jolting my head back and forth like a cowgirl as it tore between my teeth. Riding my toy motorbike, stomping on litchis, getting stung by bees. Racing the go-cart my dad made for me, getting smeared in dog poo. Making mud pies at the water tank. Swinging as high as I could go. Being taken for wheelbarrow rides. Spinning around, getting dizzy and falling to the ground, observing the world in fast-motion. Lying on the grass, making up pictures out of clouds of different shapes and sizes. Applying Tinkerbell lipstick, not within my lip line. Getting dressed up in my granny’s dirty clothes from the wash basket and modelling down the long passage to a song on my grandfather’s portable radio. Making tents out of blankets on rainy days. Picking carrots out of the ground in the vegetable garden, until finding the biggest one, washing it under the garden tap and munching away as I walk back to the house.
Once upon a time there was a princess called Jessica aka me. The natural transition of my hair, from a short, blonde bob to long, brown locks reflects the different seasons of my life. I have the deepest dimples and rosy, red lips – a contagious smile. My hazel eyes tell a story.
I have fond memories of my childhood. I grew up on a farm – a wonderland. Bliss.
Those were the good, old days of summer. Climbing trees – my dad built a tree house in a mango tree for me. It had a foefie slide. I’d climb the tree just to slide down, forget the tree house. Playing on tractors, getting greasy. Fishing at the dam with the bamboo fishing rod my grandfather made for me – squeezing the phuthu I used as bait on to the hook and always getting my brother to take the fish I caught off for me. Eating sugar cane, jolting my head back and forth like a cowgirl as it tore between my teeth. Riding my toy motorbike, stomping on litchis, getting stung by bees. Racing the go-cart my dad made for me, getting smeared in dog poo. Making mud pies at the water tank. Swinging as high as I could go. Being taken for wheelbarrow rides. Spinning around, getting dizzy and falling to the ground, observing the world in fast-motion. Lying on the grass, making up pictures out of clouds of different shapes and sizes. Applying Tinkerbell lipstick, not within my lip line. Getting dressed up in my granny’s dirty clothes from the wash basket and modelling down the long passage to a song on my grandfather’s portable radio. Making tents out of blankets on rainy days. Picking carrots out of the ground in the vegetable garden, until finding the biggest one, washing it under the garden tap and munching away as I walk back to the house.
A storm was approaching. Autumn had arrived. My brother and I were playing on the floor in the lounge. My dad came and sat next to us. Even though I was only four, he didn’t have to say anything, I just knew my life was about to change. He told us he had to leave. I just knew he wasn’t coming back, at least not any time soon. I heard a bad word, “jail”.
He told us he had done something wrong, but I couldn’t have cared less – he’s my dad and I love him, end of story.
I ran to his bakkie, where I curled up at the foot of the passenger seat. If he wasn’t going to stay, then I was going to go with him. He wasn’t supposed to find me. He carried me back to my mum and brother. When he hugged me goodbye, I couldn’t let him go. I held on to him with all the strength and with all the might of a little girl.
As he started walking away, I slipped down and clung to his ankles until I couldn’t hold on anymore. I cried my heart out as I watched him drive away, down the gravel road. His bakkie got smaller and smaller as he went further and further away, until it disappeared into the distance.
I didn’t talk for days. I became shy, reserved – I was heavily burdened, battling to breathe.
Winter was on its way. Not to mention what my dad had done, what I couldn’t understand was why he didn’t love me. When he was released from prison a few years later, he’d visit me from time to time, until those visits disintegrated into nothing.
I would visit him during school holidays, under supervision.
When we were eventually allowed to be alone together, I realised that I was scared of him. I asked myself, “Who is this man I call Dad?”
The sky darkened. The cold crept in.
As I got older and wiser (I might add), I acted on my call to forgive my dad. Not for him and not in the hope that he’ll change, but as accepting him as my dad, whom I love unconditionally.
A vision dawned on me. Not only did he go to prison, so did I. Like in his bakkie, I had been curled up since then, in the corner of a dark, cold prison cell.
Bright light suddenly barged in. I felt warmth. I stood up, turned around and noticed that the gate had been open the whole time. I realised that I had chosen to suffer. I walked out into the light and I was free.
I dream of open spaces, running – wild and free, dancing in the rain, spinning around like a ballerina on the tips of my toes – the deepest longings of my heart, my definition of freedom.
Spring time. My boyfriend and I have the best time, my all-time.
We run, chasing each other along the shore. We dance in the garden. We jump on the trampoline, screaming with laughter.
I take his breath away, as he does mine. He doesn’t have to tell me he loves me because I can tell. He isn’t sure about us, but he ought to be. He said, “No one has ever loved me as much as you do.” He asked, “Do you love easily, Jess?” I answered, “Yes, but I don’t love you because I love easily, I love you because you’re easy to love.”
Seasons change, but we make time stand still.
Spring time. Best time. All-time.
You see a pretty, fun-loving girl. Childlike and carefree.
You don’t see her broken heart, even though she wears it on her sleeve. Where does my smile come from? It comes from knowing that I am loved, my only hope, all that I am.
The great I Am, my Dad: God–King.
