I don’t even write in this journal as much as I used to. I don’t need to, I suppose. For once in my life, my heart is still.
I asked Ma how something so perfect, so magnificent, could come from so much darkness. Ma said it’s because Mpho is like those flowers, those nighttime flowers that only bloom when the sun is long forgotten, like the evening primrose with all its healing powers.
Sometimes Ma can be so annoying, but sometimes she says the nicest things.
❖
Today I am taking Mpho to get her immunizations. This morning she woke up all smiles, laughing and cooing. When I sang to her she kicked her arms and legs in delight. She hasn’t a care in the world. But I’ve been carrying her around all morning with a heaviness in my heart, nervous about the pain the nurse will inflict on her later in the day. A necessary pain. One that will save her, protect her, spare her from suffering in the future. One day she’ll thank me. But I feel bad nevertheless. No mother can bear to watch her child get hurt. As she happily bats at the little creatures hanging from her playpen, I prepare her diaper bag for the clinic visit. I dress appropriately. My shirt has buttons that slip open easily, so I can soothe her at the breast after the injections. I pack a change of clothes for her in case, like last time, she cries so frantically that she brings up her breakfast.
If I was to explain to her what awaits her, she would not understand. She is too young, and, anyway, to what end? The deed must be done, the jab must be given. Why spoil her morning with stressful information, when I will be right there by her side to comfort her when it is all over?
