PUFF, PUFF, PASS

I take away the burning cylindrical paper from my mouth and slowly exhale my harsh reality. The stoep around me slowly swirls to form an intricate dance with the smoke in the air. The table in front of me is filled with my paraphernalia and cigars that were once yours. I sit in the chair that was once yours, passed from one generation to the next. Muffled music comes from the speaker. I have no idea why it is muffled; it's resting on top of the mini-fridge completely unobstructed. I suppose the world will be just a little quieter now. Inside, my mother sits at the table with my uncle, crying over various documents that have words and phrases like “next of kin" and “will" written all over them. Out here on the stoep, those words mean precious little to me.

I've been spending a lot of time out here. It is a place separate from a world where you aren't there. The table stretches across the stoep, benches flanking it and framing it nicely in line with the sliding door. Your two-meter long braai is filled with charcoal. I thought lighting a fire would coax you out from where you were hiding. I can be a little silly like that sometimes. I take another drag from my green saviour and watch as the world inside drifts further and further away from me. I don't want to go too far away mind, that's why I wear your shirt, your hoodie and your sweatpants to keep me anchored, just not painfully so. My gran joins me outside, teary-eyed and dragging on her own relief. She sits down in the corner of the couch and looks out across the garden you worked so hard to maintain through our rambunctious Labrador and Golden Retrievers. My sister walks past the sliding door and turns on the light. Or was the light already on? Was it day? Was it night? I don't actually know. I guess the world will be a little darker now.

I look around frowning. The table’s still here, the music is still playing, the braai is still empty, so why does it feel different? Why does the table look old and worn? Why does couch look like it is only fit for lice? I shrug; it was supposed to be different I reminded myself. Different so I could escape, different so I could pretend you're still here. I sigh as I extinguish the only way in-and-out of my new stoep. I'm not too fussed; I'll be doing it all again later.