Foreboding - By Samantha Wynne

Written By: Samantha Wynne

Category: Personal Essay

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Samantha Wynne presents "Foreboding," a poignant personal essay submitted to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. In this reflective piece, Samantha delves into the realm of childhood memories, exploring the warmth of familial bonds and the shadow of anticipatory grief. Through vivid imagery and a deeply personal narrative, she invites readers to experience the tenderness and complexity of moments spent with loved ones. This piece resonates with the universal theme of longing and the bittersweet nature of memory.

About the Work

"Foreboding" captures the essence of nostalgia and the innocence of childhood. Samantha Wynne's essay weaves a tapestry of sensory details, creating a vivid portrait of her grandparents' garden and the fleeting moments shared within it. Her narrative is rich with emotion, capturing both the joy of simple pleasures and the underlying sorrow of anticipated loss. Through evocative language and poignant reflections, this essay invites readers to ponder the delicate balance between happiness and grief.

Foreboding

Original Submission by Samantha Wynne

Foreboding

I am in my grandparents’ garden, like I was yesterday and the day before. There’s a sort of pinkish haze that covers my view, like a photograph from long before. I can hear the birds in the tree, fluttering and squeaking in the bird bath, fighting for space by the feeders I had filled this morning with leftovers from breakfast – orange and apple slices – only the firm, crisp apples, though, the soft ones were too mushy for my liking – and some birdseed. I had sat out there this morning and watched Grandma spread orange marmalade on her toast and sip from her coffee. I had watched the coffee drip down the sides of the white porcelain mug and dry immediately in the cold.

Grandma had a tendency to spill when she drank coffee – early signs of Parkinson’s that I was too young to understand – but she’d always laugh it off and when Grandma laughed, I did, too. Grandpa had spread Bovril on his toast, and I turned my nose up at the pungency of it. I had quite the spread on my plate: a soft-boiled egg sitting daintily in its ceramic cup that was decorated with ‘S-A-M-I’ in my scrawled writing. It was the first thing I’d learnt to spell. It wouldn’t be until years later that I would start using the nickname again but spelled differently for the original spelling would make me teary-eyed. Only my Grandma called me ‘Sami’ and I’d hear her voice in everyone else’s. And tied to that voice was the inescapable pit of grief. My gran had taught me to open the boiled egg by chopping the tip off with a butter knife and then soaking little slices of toast in the golden yolk. She used to call them “soldiers” because she would line them all up like single file soldiers preparing for war. The toast would always be brown bread and so saturated with salted butter that it’s a wonder that any yolk stuck to it.

I’m on the stoep after breakfast, soaking up bits of sun that slink through the flat-bottomed clouds and drip down to earth. I’m next to my gran’s massive terracotta pot, housing too much parsley for any dish. I don’t like the way it curls its leaves; I find it too frilly and complicated. My hand occasionally brushes against the huge pot, molding around its curved body. It feels damp and cool. It smells of nostalgia for some reason. Even from a young age – maybe 4 or 5 – I found myself thinking of how I’d miss moments while I was living them. I’d be sitting on my gran’s lap, watching a baking show with her, and know this moment of happiness would pass soon. What I now know is anticipatory grief – I finally have a name for it – would grab at my insides and twist them until I could cry. I’d hug her arms tighter around me and only be soothed by the melodic bouncing of her leg under me. She’d smooth my hair down and say, “Well,” in her matter-of-factly voice, “there’s no time for sulking, is there?” I’d wish I had the words to describe what I was feeling – that’s a trait I would still carry with me into adulthood.

Today, I swam in the pool and Grandma and Grandpa watched me. I showed them a new type of technique I’d learnt – breaststroke. I’d resurface, my little head bound with goggles popping through the water, and see my grandpa smiling at me from his seat on the cement bench. It’s an older kind; it’s got clawed feet and a line of beading around the edges. The sunlight bounces on the water’s skin and I smell of chlorine. My red hair – much more vibrant back then – would curl up towards its roots and drip onto my shoulders. Grandpa tells me he’ll get me an ice cream for swimming so well. I will enjoy it and we will steal bites from each other’s cup. I got chocolate, as always. Grandpa got mint chocolate chip, which I’d never tried before. I don’t realise I will always think of his better days, his smiling days, whenever I taste mint ice cream.

We return after passing the toy store. I am enamored by a massive plush dinosaur with a mechanized moving head and a mouth that seemingly roars. “It’s a brontosaurus”, Grandpa says. We spend three quarters of an hour in the store. Grandpa looks at miniature trains – collectible ones that stick to tiny railway lines and pass by even tinier people, frozen in place. Some are waving, some are carrying bags, some are even mid-step towards the train station. Grandpa buys me a model of the human body with movable insides made of some sort of jelly-like substance. I would be tested on organizing them into their respective places. It was an odd gift for a 5-year-old but, then again, I was an odd 5-year-old and both grandparents were insistent that girls invest their minds in science.

I do not flinch or cover myself in the bath when my grandpa walks in to bring more sponges for me to play with. He gathers up water in a grey plastic jug and gently washes my small back, still untouched by freckles – courtesy of my gran who would lose her mind if I refused her ritual of dousing me in sunblock. I tell Grandpa about my thoughts. He smiles softly back at me over the spindly brown frames of his too-square glasses. He puts a generous cup of lavender bubble bath in the water, and I wiggle further near the taps. The artificial plum-purple marbles the water, sinking right to the bottom. Grandpa turns the tap on – it’s one of those old-fashioned brass tap you have to turn – and I’m delighted to feel the hot water crawl towards my stubby legs and tiny toes. Grandpa leaves and doesn’t close the door behind him. I hear a little robotic beep and a shaky breath from their bedroom – Grandpa’s turned the heater on for me.

I will flinch eventually, with every man, even the ones who say they’re good. Different. That’s the word they like to use. I am so unaware – so happily unaware – that I will never be able to bath again. I take the sponges, all different colours and silly shapes – a blue smiley face and a purple crescent moon with a nose and lips jutting out – and collect bubbles on them. My grandma comes in and washes my hair. I am wrapped in a soft towel with embroidery along its edges. I don’t like how it feels. The texture irritates me, and I do my best to not let it touch my skin. It’s a sort of silver-pink thread that swirls around itself and the border of the towel’s fabric.

I will get dressed in my pajamas. They will be the pink set my mom had sent me with. A soft long-sleeved shirt with some sort of vinyl writing printed on it and a matching pair of fuzzy pink pants, adorned with purple hearts. My mom loves purple. I will sit between Grandma and Grandpa on their couch in the study-turned-lounge and watch the news. Grandma will say it’s too late for this sort of thing. Grandpa will dismiss her with a scowl and a flick of his wrinkled hand. They will exchange resentful glances and I will not notice. I will be safe in bed; the weight of so many blankets will force the air out of me, and I will sleep without nightmares.

I do not realise how lucky I am to just be. My skin is untouched by strange hands in dark corners. My heart is light and pure. I love without hesitation because it’s all I know – Grandma made sure of that. I trust and hope without any doubt. I give without secret greed or twisted intentions. My skin is mine. I take up space so shamelessly and talk so proudly with an unwavering voice that it frightens me now to look back and wonder when my spirit became so small and unsure. I could run freely and eat two helpings of spaghetti bolognaise and sing without hesitation and judgement. For now, I am just a girl who loves to draw and dance and love.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious event that celebrates the diversity and creativity of writers worldwide. This competition provides a platform for participants to showcase their talents, share their unique voices, and engage with a global community of literary enthusiasts. Each submission is a testament to the power of storytelling and the enduring impact of the written word.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Samantha Wynne for sharing her moving personal essay, "Foreboding," with us. Through her participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, she has enriched our understanding of the interplay between memory and emotion. We look forward to witnessing her continued journey in the world of creative writing.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.