the last day sits in my chest
I hate the end of the year.
Not quietly. Not in a cute, “I prefer calm” way. I hate it with history. With memory. With something that sits in my chest and refuses to move.
People count down like midnight is cleaning something. Like the year ends and whatever hurt you stays behind. They shout, they hug, they kiss like love is easy when fireworks are loud enough.
I don’t hear fireworks.
I hear machines.
I hear that hospital sound that doesn’t leave once it enters you.
My mom died on the 31st of December.
So when people celebrate, it feels like they’re celebrating on top of something that never healed.
It started on Christmas. The 25th.
We were having a good day. That’s what makes it worse. It wasn’t one of those days you expect something bad. It was normal. Loud. Alive. Food in big bowls, aunties moving around like managers, kids running, everyone talking over each other.
The salads were already made. Potato salad, beetroot, that strong smell of vinegar and onions. The kitchen was warm, full of noise. My mom was moving like she always did—busy, smiling, making sure everyone ate before her.
She looked tired, but she always looked tired. That kind of tired that women carry like it’s part of their body.
Then she stopped.
Not a fall. Not shouting. Just a pause. Her hand went to her head, slow, like she was checking something no one else could see.
“I have a headache,” she said.
Just like that.
Like it was nothing.
She even laughed a little after saying it, like she didn’t want to disturb the energy of the day.
Rakel looked at her longer than everyone else did. Rakel always saw more. Even then.
“You’re okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” my mom said quickly. Too quickly. “Just pain.”
The day kept moving. Because it always does. People don’t stop when something small starts going wrong. They wait until it becomes big.
Then my mom looked at me.
“Rachel, go to the shop for me,” she said. “Buy headache pills. Quickly.”
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I liked being useful. I liked when she asked me for something. It made me feel close to her.
I took the money and ran.
Outside, it was still Christmas. Music, smoke from braais, people laughing like nothing in the world could touch them. I remember thinking I should hurry so I can come back and eat.
I bought the pills. I didn’t even check the change properly. I just grabbed the plastic packet and ran back.
And something had already changed.
The house felt… tight.
People standing too close. Talking in low voices. Rakel on the phone. My mom lying down.
I stepped inside holding the pills like they mattered.
“I got them,” I said.
My mom turned her head slowly. Her eyes looked wrong. Not tired. Not normal. Something deeper. Something scared.
She tried to speak.
The words came out thick.
That’s when fear entered the room properly.
Everything after that moved fast and slow at the same time.
Voices shouting. Someone saying hospital. Someone else saying wait. Rakel not listening to anyone. My mom being lifted. Me standing there still holding that plastic packet, like maybe I was too late with something that was supposed to fix everything.
We went to the hospital.
And it all became white lights and cold air and waiting.
I stayed with her.
I thought if I stayed, she would stay too.
That’s how a child thinks. That presence is power. That love can hold someone inside their body if you don’t let go of their hand.
For days, it felt like we were inside something that didn’t have time. Nurses came and went. Doctors spoke in words I didn’t understand. People prayed loudly, softly, differently.
My father came.
Late.
He always came late.
He stood next to her bed like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t been half missing my whole life. Like showing up now was enough.
I didn’t say anything to him.
Even at nine, I knew silence could say everything.
My mom would wake up sometimes. She would look at me like she was trying to remember something. She’d squeeze my hand. That small squeeze meant everything.
Then the pain would come back. You could see it take her.
By the 31st, the hospital felt like the only world left.
Outside, people were preparing for the new year.
Inside, we were waiting for something we couldn’t stop.
Her breathing changed first.
That’s what I remember.
Not a big moment. Just… something off. Like a rhythm breaking.
I leaned closer. “Mama?”
She looked at me. Really looked.
I will never forget that look.
It felt like goodbye before the word existed.
Then her hand loosened in mine.
And just like that, she was gone.
No warning. No loud ending.
Just gone.
The same way the year was ending.
I didn’t cry immediately.
I just sat there.
Because how do you understand that a person can be there and then not be there in the same minute?
Since then, December has never been just December.
It carries her.
—
Now it’s 2019.
I’m twenty. Almost twenty-one.
People say it like it’s something big.
“Your 21st! What are you doing?”
“Party?”
“Big plans!”
I nod. I say “we’ll see.”
But in my head, I’m still nine in a hospital chair, watching the year end wrong.
I live with Rakel now.
She became everything after my mom died. Not soft, not overly emotional. Just there. Always there. The kind of person who shows love by making sure things don’t fall apart.
That morning, she was in the kitchen before me.
“You’re going to be late,” she said, not even looking up.
“I’m going,” I said.
She glanced at me once. That one look where she checks everything—my face, my mood, what I’m not saying.
“You didn’t sleep.”
“I did.”
She didn’t argue. She just poured tea and put bread on the counter.
“Eat.”
I ate because not eating in front of Rakel feels like disrespect.
Then I left.
Taxi, noise, people packed too close. Life moving whether you feel ready or not.
At work, I put on my headset and became someone else.
“Hi, how can I assist you today?”
All day.
Even when people are rude. Even when they treat you like you are nothing. You stay nice. You stay calm. You stay in control.
I think I learned that at home.
By lunch, I was tired in that deep way that sleep doesn’t fix.
I checked my phone.
Kay had messaged.
“hey, thinking of you.”
Kay is easy. Kay is kind. Kay shows up.
But something in me doesn’t go deeper with her.
I replied: “hey.”
Then I checked Karabo.
Nothing.
My stomach tightened.
We were supposed to meet last night.
She didn’t come.
No explanation.
No proper apology.
Just gone.
Then she came back this morning with a voice note.
“I’m sorry. Yesterday was just crazy. Let’s do today.”
Today.
Always moving things to tomorrow, then today, then tomorrow again.
And I still show up for it.
That’s the part I don’t like about myself.
Then Andile texted.
“you free later?”
Andile never asks properly. Just half-asks, like she already knows you’ll say yes.
I didn’t reply.
Then Alexandria.
“what happened?”
I stared at that message.
She always knows.
“karabo,” I typed.
She replied fast.
“of course. she stood you up?”
I didn’t answer.
“stop letting her do that,” she sent.
That’s the thing about Alexandria. She says the truth like it’s simple.
But it’s not simple.
Because if I stop letting Karabo do that, then I lose her completely.
And I don’t know how to lose something I barely even have.
After work, I finally got a message from Karabo.
“I was thinking… we should do something cute soon.”
Cute.
That word went straight to my chest.
I hate how it works on me.
We should look like a couple. That’s what she means.
Not be one properly. Just look like one.
Still, I replied.
“like what?”
“matching outfits.”
And just like that, I felt hope.
Stupid, small, soft hope.
Matching outfits means pictures. It means being seen. It means maybe she will act like I matter when people are watching.
I held onto that.
When I got home, Rakel looked at me again.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
She didn’t believe me, but she let it go.
In my room, I sat on my bed with my phone.
Matching outfits.
Where do I even get that?
I started searching.
Scrolling. Pages. Options.
Then I found one.
Clean clothes. Not loud in a childish way. Just… real. Matching sets that didn’t beg for attention but still held it.
The name was there.
Zinhle Khumalo.
I clicked.
Scrolled.
Something about the page felt… steady.
I don’t know how to explain it.
Like this person doesn’t beg for attention either.
I messaged Tinyiko.
“do you know her?”
“yeah. want her number?”
“Yes.”
The number came fast.
I saved it.
Zinhle K.
I stared at the name for a few seconds.
Then I typed.
Hi. Tinyiko gave me your number. I want matching outfits for me and my girlfriend. Are they available?
Girlfriend.
I stared at that word before I sent it.
Then I pressed send.
The message went through.
And suddenly it felt like something started.
Small. Quiet.
But real.
My phone buzzed.
Hi Rachel. Yes. What sizes are you looking for?
Simple.
Direct.
No softness.
No games.
I felt something relax in my body.
That’s how low I am now.
Clarity feels like kindness.
I smiled a little, then caught myself.
It’s just clothes.
That’s all.
But my life has a way of turning small things into big ones.
A headache into a funeral.
A person into a habit.
A message into a story.
And me…
Still trying to learn the difference between love…
and something that only looks like it.
