I left a damp, dull Johannesburg on a flight full of high school kids on a tour of sorts and laughed at the memory of my high school camp. The veldschool was one of those 'let's toughen these kids up' and we spent a night under our self-made shelter survivor style. I'm surprised that I am not more traumatized by that memory.
My flight was lovely though, three seats to myself, strong UV sunshine bouncing off the clouds making me think of dad standing behind Betty White in the queue at the Pearly Gates. I was listening to music watching the clouds shape and marveled at how ruggedly beautiful KwaZulu-Natal is from the sky. Green hills with red roads zig zagging to small dwellings with fleshy brown rivers scouring round the valleys full of rain water from up country. Stunning stuff.
I met with the priest who is going to officiate my dad's funeral and shared some memories of him. It was interesting hearing myself describe my dad to a stranger and a Catholic one at that. I'm only now remembering how my dad and Fr John used to have the occasional whiskey and sing song in our old home town. It's possibly the only regular conversation that I have ever had with a priest as an adult. I am far braver now and while waiting with me for my Uber, I asked him about his priesthood and life which was fascinating as his older, 83 year old sister is a nun. So many questions went unasked because it's the 'wrong time' but it made me see the human behind the collar for a change.
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