Hesitantly, with a tightly clenched fist raised in the stiff air, I gulp down a pile of nerves and knock my knuckles against the wood of the door. The very same door I walked out of the moment my application was accepted to move into the apartment I live in now. The very same door I saw my father stand at, watching as the Uber took me away from the house, that being the last time I saw him.
The very same door that keep many painful and then many happy memories trapped within the many walls of this house. A house I'm not too sure I could call a home anymore, not after the passing of my mother.
My gut instantly twists and turns disturbingly. I'm definitely anxious, if the slight shaking of my body doesn't give it away, then maybe my laboured breathing serves as a clear indication. I'm second guessing, I know I am, but this was bound to happen sooner or later.
And I tried by all means to make it later, but I think a week between now and my birthday has been more than enough time to convince myself to just do it. Just see him. Just bring myself to this point of having a sit down with him, clearing my chest and possibly spewing out whatever my thoughts spark.
There's chattering in the other end; I'm surprised I can even hear the footsteps, and then after the sound of the lock sliding backwards, the knob turns before the door is pulled away from me.
There he stands. Wide eyes, a warm smile (filled with nerves, of course), and hands rubbing his thighs. He seems different. He dresses nicely, I must admit. He looks clean — not to say my father had never looked clean — and the aroma gushes past him and onto my face, tickling the senses of my stomach all the more.
"Gertrude."
"Papa." I mutter, then clear my throat. It's only now that I realise my hand is clutching the straps of my bag and plastic bag. "Can I come in?"
With one firm nod, he moves to the side and allows me room to step inside. I do, but surely one can understand the hesitation that vibrates off me as I step into the house, glancing around as he closes and locks the door.
It looks... the same. There's something different about it, very much the same difference oozing off of him, but it still looks the same. I think I feel my heart aching, it's been a minute since I've seen it been back here.
"I'm glad you made it safe and sound."
I hum, then turn to him. "Well, I brought coke and dessert."
"Oh?" He eyes the plastic bag and then smiles once again, before he waves his hand for me to follow him as he heads towards the kitchen. Even the way he walks, he doesn't seem hurt anymore — he's not using his walking stick. "That's so nice of you, my child. Food should be ready soon, we made sure to not waste time so you eat only minutes after your arrival."
"We?"
We found the corner and enter the kitchen. To my surprise, I see a woman standing by the stove. She closes the steaming hot pot and turns to us, grinning brightly as she looks at my father and then at me. Her dark eyes scheme my entire body, head to toe, then to my eyes.
"Zikhona," the man walks towards the woman. When they stand side by side, he daringly wraps his arm around her, until his hand rests in her hip as they both face me. "This is my child, Gertrude. Gertrude, this is Zikhona."
"Greetings, Zikhona." She says this in our mother tongue, no surprise I understand her. "I've heard only the best things about you."
My lips part, but not even a thought comes to mind, because what do I say? They seem extremely close; either they got this close the moment I left or... they've always... they were waiting for the right moment. I don't know.
