Homeward Bound

If you think about home, where exactly is that, ponders Karin Brynard.

Have you come to fetch me,” an old lady demanded to know as I walked into the old age home yesterday. “I’m ready to go home now.”

She was sitting regally in a wheelchair, a huge brooch on the lapel of her neat jacket and a fiery look on her timeworn face. Her caregiver silently signalled me to walk on by. “There, there, my dear, we’re not going anywhere; we are home,” she said soothingly.

“I want to go home!” commanded the old woman, shaking her bony fist.

I scurried along to my mom’s flatlet at the end of the passage. Behind me I heard her cry out again, “So, where exactly do I live then?”

My mother’s little place was bathed in winter sunlight, warm and cosy. She was sitting on her beloved armchair, colouring in a picture of a fairy princess, the sun glistening in her hair, creating a flame-white halo. As always, she was happy to see me.

“And what are we doing today?” she asked, wide-eyed. “We’re looking at photos,” I said, putting down my basket.