Does time heal wounds? When my youngest son made a crucial decision at the end of 2020 to take up a position in Liverpool in the United Kingdom, I was devastated. He has degrees in architecture, town planning, and an MBA and a PDM. Working for a development company that tries to upgrade parts of Johannesburg, for which he was praised, it was decided that he would be the one to be retrenched when his contract expired. He was the only white person in the department. Doug has always been determined to uplift communities and now, I suppose, in Liverpool he will pursue his aims.
His wonderful wife, Lindsey, and children Anna, 11, and Tom, 9, were faced with the huge task of packing up their modest home because Doug left two months before them and had already undergone quarantine. Their much-loved Yorkie, Felix, will also emigrate once they move into their new home in Liverpool. Doug continues to pay his erstwhile employee, Sibongile, although she has found a good job. The children were greeted warmly by the progressive Jewish community in Liverpool, and now attend King David in that city where they seem to have made friends.
I face icy loneliness when driving past their former home, Johannesburg schools, and nursery school daily. I desperately miss the lift schemes, playing eye spy, and trips to our favourite coffee shops.
It has been said that if you want to move forward, it’s best not to look back. Somehow, there is an emptiness inside of me in spite of rationalising that Doug and Lindsey’s move is for the good of their family.
I have two older grandchildren in this city. I love and admire them enormously, and hope to teach the younger of the two, Natalie, how to cook some of my favourite dishes during the July holidays. She asked me if I would.
When the pandemic ends and we can visit, I’ll be the first one on the plane.
