35

I’m still a month younger than you today,

I still have only one hair, that has turned grey,

Unlike yours, which had an equal distribution of white, black and grey,

I don’t feel like celebrating my day,

It doesn’t feel special or happy,

Without you or your ideas, on how we should celebrate, which always sounded cool and wacky, 

Toit for my 34th, hot chocolate for my 29th, Singapore for my 30th,

Wonder what you would have planned for my 40th,

To ensure, I don’t become naughty at forty,

Your biggest, horror and fear, that I’ll run away with a random, long haired, shorty,

You ran away poopie,

I know you didn’t want to, I’m working towards fulfilling some of your dreams, filled with hard work and beauty,

Stuck in the hard work phase now,

Just to make you go “wow”,

From your heavenly abode,

How is heaven by the way, is it filled with clouds and all your favourite beers, make sure to load,

Our house in heaven, with chocolates and super hero curios, 

Forget toys, I want Riaan to live to a ripe old age, so he would be furious,

If you treat him like a child,

At an age when he would have a grandchild,

Or two, 

He still misses you and doesn’t have a clue,

About why and where you’ve gone,

His questions about you, become more persistent mid-way through his yawns,

He asks me why I’m wearing your t-shirts and wedding band,

On my hand,

I don’t think he understands,

It’s my birthday today, all he wants is to somehow land,

A big blue, car shaped cake,

So that he can mutilate, cut and break,

The non existent life, out of that edible thing,

Until someone manages to swing,

The knife out of his hand,

All his wishes and most importantly yours, were always my command,

We haven’t finished 99 years together, as per our poopie contract,

God didn’t even give you time to react,

When he snatched you away at 35 years and one month,

You won’t get to see Riaan’s children when they are a month,

Or even one year old,

It’s alright, hold your beer bottle high and await my Baileys filled cheers, that moment would be pure gold,

We’ll have a Mr and Mrs Poopie reunion in heaven,

Right after I pack off Riaan with someone responsible, at twenty seven,

The same age, we got married,

That is, unless I get buried,

Knee deep, in ammumma duties,

And get the chance, to sniff some grandchild booties,

That would be so bittersweet and nice,

Then I can finally reach you in bliss and peace.