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The wild girl The wild girl
by Abigail George
2017-07-15 09:52:02
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The wild girl

    I never look at my sister’s photograph
    Anymore. She’s going back to Prague

at the end of August. I read Jean Rhys’ novels.
Drown myself in Plath and Updike. Adeline

   girl01 Virginia Woolf knocking at the door.
    Nan, my grandmother, when she was
    alive ruled our house, (the Russia House)
    with a penchant for soup and hot tea
    on rainy Sundays, nervous breakdowns
    during spring, whenever distance lends
    enchantment to the view. And so the
    wild girl’s autumn soul became religious.
    Because she was always found in autumn.

Remember what God has already done
for you. Words that tasted like apricot
jam when you were little right down to
your liver and the red journey of your
crooked little heart. There was once a
sad country ruled by a lonely man and a
sad woman. They ruled with instinct the
wilderness with the back of their hands.
She would tell us stories. Portraits of when she was a girl.
The music in her house. The childhood sanctuary of her bedroom.
Nan also told us about her summer dad.
The winter woman who was her mother.
Whose hands were as cold as ice. It was
nan’s paternal grandmother who baked
bread on Saturday evenings. Not it is
my father and I who bond over the poems
of Arthur Nortje. Eating Black Forest
cake. Licking the cream and jam off our fingers.

    I was supposed to have married him.
    She was going to get me out of the house.
    She wanted me to have a life. The kind of
    life that she had. Married with children.
    Studies and babies with a husband and a degree.
    But all I could see was fireworks and
    tight budgets. Lovemaking. Sadness and that I, my soul would be lost in those fireworks, tight budgets, lovemaking, babies and sadness.

Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!



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