Today I had two very unusual experiences. I was rushed off my feet, the only light in the tunnel being the oncoming train. Phone call (one of too many). A couple needed assistance with a funeral. I sighed inwardly. No time for this. But send them over, I said to Dianne.
They came in, the couple. I was focused to get this over and done with. Not a good time for people to die, I thought. Name? Evan. Surname? Dixon.
My aunt was married to a Dixon: Charlie Dixon. He baked the best ginger cookies in the world, I said.
That’s my gran! Are you auntie Lona’s daughter, she cried, slightly incredulous.
I knew it then. Only relatives from my mom’s long lost past called her Lona.
Yes! And are you Evan’s daughter?
She grabbed met and dissolved in tears. She sobbed and sobbed. I can’t believe how much you look like my mom, she said between sobs.
Turns out she is my mother’s sister’s son’s daughter, a.k.a. my niece. Her dad is my cousin. Was. Imagine that: he was in this church, had a house in Aston Bay and we never met once. Yes, we met quite often as kids, when we would visit the family in East London and such, but to think that we were this close in proximity, and never once did our paths meet? It boggles the mind.
What if I had not offered to help? What if I had ignored the surname – the remote possibility of her being a relative? I mean, Toni’s aunt, my mom and I visited Namakwaland a couple of years ago to scatter yet another sister’s ashes and found the deserted yet well kept grave of a certain gentleman named “Manifold Dixon.” I did not ask him if he were perhaps related to uncle Charlie of the ginger cookies. But imagine if he could talk…
How incredibly kind is God, I said as I hugged Toni, to bring you to me.
So, I am to host mycousin’s funeral on Friday.
The second incident had me in tears. But I’m wayyyy to tired to tell. Just know that it involves a phone conversation, a Brazilian and a veeeery tired me. I also hurt at times.