Flash memoir:

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A synopsis of the book:

I’m discovering Aetheria’s consciousness amid keeping a journal, her 10-year odyssey until
birth, when the infant communicated to me, her wish: Call me, “Sunshine.” Over Sunshine’s
first two years, and at nine-month intervals, she’s resuscitated under particular conditions,
Aetheria’s puppeteering through a hostile milieu, persistent under Intensive Care Unit
challenges. After Sunshine’s mother packed and left home, the witches and wizards
volatilized, to lead a healthier life.

YD6~18 I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane, Don't know when I'll be back
again
As I rouse, dawning my pets to give and lie-in a home to care, with first light glimpsing
through a window grid skies like a calendar marking off days. I rehearse the puzzling pieces
of an idea initiated by the Supreme Divorce Court, ordered to vacate, Jean nestle as 100%
shareholder of, “7/25 Kelvin Properties (Pty.) Ltd.,” cradle to Lionel and Gavin. A
recurring template at organizing my departure at a day by my departure from the Knowler’s
family.

With a bedding grip, I fling back the covers, kick my feet over the edge, through the
small pane window, due North pictured the neighbor’s backyards. imagining amid gables and
rooftops shy under flexed elbows’ branching foliage, Sunnyway in the midst shared
auto-sketched my former office double story leg to an L-pattern of staggered terracotta
saddled roofs. ‘_After all!_’ I’m reminiscing, with a crew of Bantu laborers, I packed the
prone to wobble deep trough profiled roof tiles.

In thought, off the window’s outer reveal, I’m led to Ivo, and In-laws’ milieu on the
eastern horizons. I scheduled to call on Ivo. such as he cleared my former headquarters, the
rest after Hilton Rogoff’s restructured Aticon (Pty.) Ltd., of the valuables. I’ll fall on the
occasional drive by Spartan, visit Ivo’s Bom-Mach (Pty.) Ltd.’s workshop, and cross my
strongroom’s portable safe, hence dwindled cash on hand, my tailored desk to spread
blueprints, executive chair, and low visitor’s chairs.

As I’m foreseeing a gateway, passing by Ivo’s family, confident he’ll give me a ride. A
drive worming a course through the Highway subway to Jan Smuts International Airport’s
grounds. To drop me off at the departure terminal.

My thoughts linger through the small pane window, rising to my feet. Crossed
Westward, my thoughts for Igor’s family living in Randburg’s and his in-laws’ milieu, as I slip
into a shirt. I thread my foot to step, then my other foot through my pants, pull the belt up,
button, and zip the fly. I pull up socks out my shoes, pull up my feet, to slip into shoes,
stepping out of the room to the corridor to descend the stairway. I’m meeting the Kowlers’ in
the kitchen, over coffee talking about organizing my office to be cleared after my departure.
Walking away, through the TV room, into the hallway, out to the courtyard, to the sun-yellow
Mercedes. I round the car, to step in by the door swing. tweaked the ignition key, with a
sharp sixplets piston engine purr.

As I’m driving, dawn Aetheria’s instrumental, ‘_I’m leavin’ on a jet plane. . ._’
Borrowing the Western Bypass, Johannesburg to pivot. My mind breathes an orchestrated,
heartfelt cosmic melody. Resonant and persistent emanating. ‘_. . .Already I’m so
lonesome I could cry. . ._’ Convolute with memories of my former secretaries. Watering,
she rescued my office’s tropical plants, flourish in a Western window light, to a lush jungle of
leaves embracing my shoulder siting at my office desk. Since, I moved in with the Knowlers.
in the dark corner of the conversation pit, the potted plants, alongside a rescued secretary’s
desk, the faux elephant-green ears, on ill-health stalks.

I’m arriving by Igor’s family tiled roof house, I bequeath my potted plants, Robyn’s
green hands while I’m thinking. ‘_If ever I return to South Africa. . . I’m claim back to
my side once settled anew to personalize my office._’

Then, before D-Day, I’m driving bound North, in refrain to mind. ‘_. . . I’m leavin’ on
a jet plane-’ to open in the far quarter, Buccleuch residential houses. Dropping a thought to
return to Hilton’s Mercedes by Hilton’s house, the next day. opening grasslands ahead of the
engine purring, humming to mind. ‘_I’m leaving on a jet plane. . ._’ The country road,
weaving through the valley, bridging the Jukskei river. On my way to drop-in by Ilona, with a
mere message. ‘_I’m flying to landing in Brussels, to drop by de P’pa and de M’ma!_’

I steered the car off the roadway, passing by the low fenced savanna agricultural
holding, to pull in through plum rustic brick pillars. Coasted descending the beaten vehicle
tracks toward the cottage. Veered to pull up the gritty driveway apron by the gable wall. I
stepped out of the car, turning back from the distant triple carports. To come around, step
onto the perron along the eave underneath a vine-covered pergola toward the distant front
door crack. I entered the house to the wing spreading hallway. Turn away from the bedroom
quarters toward Ilona’s figure sitting at the dining table, profile short of the distant lounge
window grid panes of the sun-yellow Mercedes.

In Flemish, I greeted her, to which she replied, as I pulled out a wooden ranch
backrest, to sit facing her against the mottled shade of a wildly grown pergola vine. I’m
breaking, Ilona bearing over accounting ledgers, my departure. Out of the blues, Ilona
pleads. “Can I have your plants?” I see a laissez-faire of destruction, regretful tumultuous
marriage destabilized wild nieces and nephews, to answer. “Ilona, I promised them to
Igor.” Which brief Ilona hurt gaze, will haunt me, thinking. ‘_depriving her of the joy of
embellishing her home, for mere plants._’ unexpected she resuscitates, pleading. “Can
I drive you to the airport?”

On the tip of my tongue, I held back from spilling my thoughts. ‘_But, I thought of
passing by Ivo. drooping of the car. As he lives alongside the airport runway,
getting a ride to the airport._’ After Ilona giving me messages for our parents, standing
up, we said, “Goodbye.” I step outdoors, by the large peripheral cottage windows, to
shadow the interior step into the Mercedes, reverse. I’m driving away out through the
gateway, emerging to the street. In circling the street block. To my regret, the T-junction
arouse a Stop sign, Initiating the Bryanston road, the traffic island vanished the branch to
the family poultry farm’s abode, where we grew to young adults. A property apart line up on
either side of my leading through route home. After a glance at the Kyalami pitch hips and
valley terracotta roof, in part collapsed, to a garage flat top of walls. The forefront property,
desolate shaggy grass, ghosting the white flourishing peach and purple plum orchard, onto
cruising to the knowlers’ house.

In the morning, I procrastinated, before I sat on the corner of my desk alongside the
telephone cradle, to lift the handset. Gavin’s voice breaks the telephone line’s distant ringing.
At my turn, I’m asking. ‘_Cooks, can I see you?_’

Over the phone, I’m assessing Gavin in the amber bullion light of the front entrance
sidelights. As he calls over his shoulder. “Lionel, ask mommy to see daddy.” By the
echoes of the low tongue-and-grove yellow pine striped ceiling, the yellow hues of the
embossed ceramic floor tiles, the red meranti lined walls. I’m locating Lionel discrete, ears
pricked. Lined in the angle with the doorway to the sleeping quarters, Gavin insists on his
musical voicing. “Lionel, call mommy.”

“No, Gavin.” Lionel replies with strained vocal cords, petrified, saying. “You ask
Mommy!”
 “I’m on the phone, Lionel!” Gavin says. Wrangled between the boys. “You, no,
You call mommy. . .” Until Gavin turns away from Lionel, with a slacking of telephone
coiled cord, his head turning away from the handset toward the lounge, calling behind.
“Mommy, can we see Daddy?”

From behind walls, softened, by lined draped peripheral walls, and upholstered settees
and lounge chairs, Jean’s dampen voice emanated from flat archways, mumbling successive
replies, as Gavin’s pleas disturbs his mother’s peace from near or the far playroom’s
television set. Until, Gavin’s voice returns, square to the entrance, saying. “Daddy. We can
see you at the gate.”

“OK,” I said. “I’m coming over.” I hung up the handset, lackadaisical shift off the
desk’s corner, step, and timing on a rambling one-way course meeting at the gate. I mount
the steps out of the conversation pit. Step across the chilly black slate toward the front door.
Extend a hand to rotate the doorknob, clearing Hilton’s Mercedes, to step around, and behind
the steering wheel, tweak the ignition key, the engine to a purr, resonate to mind. ‘_I’m
leaving on a jet plane. All my bags are packed. I’m ready to go._’ I reverse and drove
out the courtyard gates, to the dirt Roseway. Veer to emerge on the asphalt. I drive around
the block of houses, up Sunnyway, to mind humming. ‘_I’m leaving on a jet plane. Don’t
know when I’ll be back again. Oh - I hate to go. . ._’

At the interstice of neighboring properties off green lawn sidewalk, I steer onto the
concrete apron to halt in front of the gate grill. Sit with a voice humming the refrain in my
head. ‘_I’m leaving on a jet plane. … Hold me like you’ll never let me go. . ._’ With
an ignition key tweak, I alight the car. Stepped to contour the front fender, to sit back in the
hollow amid the radiator grill. Gazed through the gates’ bars, the whitish sleek concrete
panhandle channel between the margin walls to the cradle of both my boys. Behind the
shaded entrance door.

I squint, searching for the slightest motion, until Gavin materializes from phantom
gleaming shadows into the sunlight. With a closure to the hollow darkness, Lionel emerges,
lagging in his brother’s eager stride. From the driveway courtyard’s edges, to the channeling
dark blue walls —.

Flashback, my little boys keen on helping their father, bricklaying. I conceded them to
the Bantu, ushering the brothers to hunker up to the wall. With a hoop-iron shaped tool, at
racking out the mortar joints, cleaning the brick edges I laid. Before laborers left for the
night, dry scrubbed the wall clean.

Lionel behind Gavin a few strides apart, nearing along the intermittent jagged flower
planter to the clinker brick wall. But alongside the strip of lawn, by wide green skirts, cypress
with intermittent lanterns, I gauged their approach unto the fourth and last before reaching
the gate. My head resonating. ‘_I’m leaving on a jet plane. . . I’m ready to go - I hate
to wake you up to say goodbye._’ My mind couldn’t come up with words to tell my boys.
As Gavin’s fingers reach for the chained wrap, the square tubing stiles. He key-picks the
padlock. Pulls the chain’s one end to pull the gate leaf crawl through the opening crack, to
pause in front of me. While hesitant to exit, Lionel leads a shoulder by the gate.
 My foot slips off the Mercedes’ bumper to the concrete driveway. While Gavin defies
Lionel, who, petrified, calls. “Gavin!” Lionel hangs an eye on his defying little brother. ‘_We
have to leave!_’ Repeating. “Mommy said we must be back in fifteen minutes.” He
dithers paces, with fleeting glimpses over his shoulder, through the gate’s grill, short run
along the panhandle driveway, bouncing back. Lionel pressured his brother for an imminent
departure.

I’m leading away offside, while Gavin shrugs off his brother, stigmatized by his
mother’s cold-hearted outreach. I stepped from the concrete driveway apron down on the
neighbor’s grass sidewalk, to sit for an inspiring discussing with both of my boys. But they
weren’t following me, in their convolute quarrel, Lionel leaving Gavin staying, me refraining
from a seat. I return to step up, as I genuflect between my boys, at eye level, ceased their
gaze, telling. ‘_This is serious._’

Wide-eyed Lionel and Gavin frozen for a forthcoming cue, I failed to find words. Their
eyes in quest. ‘_Daddy! What’s up?_’ I couldn’t master a word until my mind huffed.
“Cooks, I have to leave you.” Their eyes, confused, dawns on them, a gradual sinking.
Lionel, encumbered by his mother’s long reach, while he kept a brave regard, standing rigid,
asking. ‘_Dad, explain?_’ His heart slumps, his feet sticking to the concrete, until he
insists. “Daddy, we have to go — Now!”

I’m standing by, daren’t contradict Lionel’s fear of his mother’s intransigence, I
straightened my legs, to my feet, saying. ‘_Lionel! You’re here not even five minutes
here._’ These words are tearing my little boy apart. Lionel’s frightful eyes thaws, turning his
head after his leading eyes, easing away. He reaches for the gate steel stile, a dilemmic shift,
asking. “Aren’t we going to see you anymore?”

I’m standing frigid, as Gavin’s heart reflects in his glare, to endure his mother. He
stands nearby, holding his tears. His eyes yearning. ‘_Take me with you..._’ In the
background, Lionel dithers away. Grabs the gate stile to lead a shoulder through the gap.
Inside the property, he glances over his other shoulder, calling. “Gavin! Come.” Gavin
cringes, bothered by Lionel’s calls for abeyance to their mother. Gavin’s soft eyes plead, but I
daren’t encourage his expectations — whisk him off his feet, saying. ‘_Lets go!_’ I left
Gavin enforce upon himself, the courage welling, torquing away, imploring. ‘_Dad. Can’t
you do something?_’ He slumbers into a pacing turn, as Lionel bears his mother’s lashing
fear, to Lionel’s whining. “Gavin...”

Gavin slips by the gate-leaves, tuning to tug the stiles together, lifts his pleading eyes.
Unyielding, he fixated me through the bars. His reluctant fingers pull the chain links to wrap
the stiles. While behind him, Lionel a dozen-strides ahead steps square to the brick wall, to a
pause eyeing Gavin. My little boy’s mighty fight back his tears, snapping the padlock to the
chain links. lagging before his eyes unstuck, on to trailing Lionel proceeds down the
driveway.

Through my watery eyes, my little boy distances, Gavin lagging his brother. His
decreasing over-the-shoulder glimpses, to sporadic glances as both brothers shrink in the
distance. They meddled to the shadows, convoluted phantoms to the closed door’s dead
stillness gleams.
 I paced away. Rounded by the sun-yellow fender of the headlight, along the car’s flank,
I pulled the door grip. Stepped around the door swing, pull close after me. Staring across the
steering wheel, awareness my boys weren’t going to reappear. I twisted in my seat, with a
heavy key at hand, picking the ignition, tweak, to a purring engine. Releasing my anchor on
the shaded entrance. Brush the gear knob toggled to reverse gear, with an eyesight scouting
through the peripheral windows, I backed away from the barred panhandles drive. I toggled
to drive along the leafy street, coasting away descending Sunnyway, with tears purfling my
cheeks, from the grilled whitish driveway remained deserted, I’m asking myself. ‘_Is there
something I could have done otherwise_?’