... our house in Durban was being broken into!
There I was balancing on the roof trying to get a good angle on Table Mountain and the whole time a bunch of... I don’t know... Is there a name for them? A bunch of dead-if-I-ever-find-them a/holes were going through our personal, private, treasured things, throwing them around like they were trash, and pocketing pieces of jewelry that can never be replaced. It’s not about the money! The insurance will take care of that. (Or at least, we HOPE they will! All of a sudden there are all sorts of clauses and fine-print... Sigh.) It’s that they will never know how precious my grandmother’s bracelet was to me. She had nothing and she saved her whole life to buy that for me on my 18th birthday, - her only grand-daughter and the apple of her eye. They’ll never know the story behind the pearl earrings that my mother got me on my 21st, or the feeling I had when I bought myself those diamond channel set rings: Independent Woman, who can buy her own bling. Were they in Egypt watching the jeweler solder my name in hieroglyphics to a pendant? No. MY name. Not the name of the arb they’re going to sell it to. That’s MY name on the bracelet my grandmother got me.
But I didn’t lose half as much as my mother did. They didn’t find all of my stash... All my mother has left is what she was wearing that day. Her engagement ring is gone. The gifts her in-laws (my grandparents) bought for her when she joined the family. The diamonds my dad bought her will each baby that she blessed their home with...
I hope they die.
It was difficult trying to put on a brave, professional face and take notes... Smile and nod... Say something witty... Throw your head back and laugh at all the right moments.
The beauty of The Twelve Apostles Hotel and Spa was lost on me. It’s apparently the place where Michael Jackson and Oprah like to stay when they’re in Cape Town. Fourteen thousand rand a night...
I just fought back the tears and counted the seconds until I could hop on a plane and come home.