Of A Feather - By Kerry Black

Written By: Kerry Black

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Introducing "Of A Feather," a moving short story by Kerry Black, a talented storyteller from Cape Town. This work is part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, showcasing diverse voices and creative expressions from around the world. In "Of A Feather," Kerry Black delves into the intimate and poignant themes of memory, family, and the enduring human spirit. Her narrative invites readers into a world where personal history and emotional truths intertwine, evoking a deep sense of shared humanity and connection.

About the Work

"Of A Feather" is a heartfelt exploration of the human experience, focusing on themes of aging, memory, and familial bonds. Kerry Black's narrative weaves a rich tapestry of emotions, capturing the bittersweet nature of love and loss through vivid imagery and evocative storytelling. The mood is both nostalgic and reflective, offering readers a poignant reminder of the beauty and fragility of life's fleeting moments. This story resonates deeply, inviting introspection and empathy.

Of A Feather

Original Submission by Kerry Black

Image 1

Of A Feather

Kerry Black

For Gran,

MYRL MOOREEN BLACK

My first and forever friend, confidant, protector, teacher and inspiration.

How lucky I am to know the all encompassing

warmth of you.

With love,

Your Pumpkin

CHAPTER 1

W A I T I N G

What do you tell someone when they can't remember anything?

Do you start with their name, or the year they were born? Perhaps the colour of their eyes? Should you remind them of the deep blue of the ocean, the warmth of the sun, how the grass sways when the wind blows? Maybe the way the moon lights up the night sky.

Do you tell them how much they mean? How much they mean to you.

The talking clock slices through the silence. “The time is nine a.m. The temperature is 22.9 degrees...Celsius.” “The time is nine a.m.

The temperature is 22.9 degrees Celsius." The clock repeats itself, in case you didn't hear it the first time. Someone has taken a fall down the hallway, again. Whoever it is must be in pain, because they're yelling something. Maybe it was Mr. What's-his-name from across the way?

He wanders, stands in the doorway to say hello to someone named Eileen. “Eileen! Eileen!” The shouting continues down the hall.

Alarm bells are ringing now.

Mr. What’s-his-name has pushed his panic button. “Eileen! Help me!” The nurses walk toward him with little, to no urgency.“What’s happened now, Mr. Atkins? Have you fallen again?” the nurse says with a demeaning smile on her face. “Where is Eileen?! He cries. “I’m sure you will see her again over the holidays.” The nurse says, tugging at his bony arms. “I want my wife! ”, he refuses. “Only a short while till Christmas now, Mr. Atkins.” The nurse reassures him, as if the man even knows the difference between two weeks, two days and two years.

Two minutes later, the other nurses arrive. Male nurses, who won't be as patient. “Stand up, sir." they say in unison. “No! I want Eileen; give me Eileen!!" Mr. Atkins replies like a child who's lost their favourite toy.

Still not seeming to understand why his wife isn't here with him.

Why he's here and she's there? Wherever ‘there’ is. The men hoist him up, wrinkling the loose skin around his wrists, and firmly guide him back to his room.

It's more like a cell, really. Four small walls. An uncomfortably hard single bed and a toilet. You can come and go as you please, or rather, come and go as far as the dining hall. The second you start veering anywhere near the front desk, it's only a matter of moments before someone uniformed flips you round and herds you back to your quarters.

Where you will sit and wait.

For a visitor, for a penny to drop,

for Mr. What’s-his-name to stand in the doorway, for tea time...

Or to die.

“The time is ten a.m. The temperature is 23.4 degrees Celsius."

It's Monday morning. Shower day, one of three each week; Monday, Wednesday and Friday, because apparently it's acceptable to go unwashed for an entire weekend.

An unenthusiastic nurse arrives in the doorway, which means ‘tis time for the dreaded trip to the communal washroom.

In case you slip a disc, or break a hip, you go between sitting on an embarrassingly small plastic chair in the centre of the shower and being held up. Hard fingers pressed into soft skin. Scrubbed, manhandled and hosed down, like an animal.

Old age homes aren’t dissimilar to animal shelters. Only, dogs get put down when no one wants them anymore.

Hair pulled. Folds lifted. A naked-at-school nightmare, but this time you are frail and awake. Dried with impatience. When was the last time you felt the loving touch of a gentle hand?

Wheeled back to bed to stare at the plain grey of these four walls. “The time is twelve p.m. The temperature is still 23.4 degrees Celsius. Meal time. Already? Transported to the dining hall. Nurses, sitting with the fuddy-duddies. Soft mush on a cold plate covered in cling film... Delightful.

Rickety chairs and a loud phlegmy cough in the corner. Lunch is three riveting shades of beige, accompanied by a green blob that just about resembles a vegetable if you squint hard enough.

Knives and forks scraping plates like nails on a chalkboard.

Then, back to the holding cell. The walls are even greyer than before.

A nurse you don't recognise judges your prune-like body as she changes you into your pyjamas, contemplating for a moment whether you are 'compos mentis' enough to notice she’d slipped one of your bracelets into her pocket.

“The time is three p.m, the temperature is 19.5 degrees celsius” Tea arrives, piping hot, with a side of stale, supposedly fibrous biscuits that leave much to be desired. You stare at the walls some more as you sip your cup of glorified dishwater. Bladder is full now, too full. Hobble on your bandy legs to the bathroom with the help of a walker and hope you’ll make it in time.

Twenty minutes later, sit back down on your bed until dinner. Blended meat, cheese and corn accompanied by more mush, but this time, with dessert. A poached pear and homemade custard.

“The time is eight p.m. The temperature is 19.2 degrees celsius.” Tablet time.

When you get old, you don't have to wait for October for Halloween; instead, it becomes part of your nightly routine.

There is a pill for every ache, pain and ailment, in every shape, size and colour imaginable.

Arthritis, blood pressure, diabetes, blood thinners, cholesterol and sleeping tablets, all handed out like candy.

Eyes close. Lights out...

Until they come back on again.

CHAPTER 2

M E R R Y M E R R Y

Tuesday morning. Same routine. Breakfast. Staring at the walls. Lunch. Stare into space. Wait...Tea time. Wait for something. Something different. Dinner. Bed.

Wednesday,

Thursday, Mr. What-his... Mr. Atkins is in the doorway. Friday,

Saturday,

Sunday. Family didn't visit this weekend. They were busy. Busy with work, busy with school. Busy with life. Bed.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,

Friday... It’s Christmas Eve.

There's a big dinner on tonight. So big that it feels like a black hole has opened up in the floor of the dining hall. Tinsel lines the walls. Michael Buble is playing. You can hear the smile in his voice as he sings.

This evening's meal is a roast. Not moosh, or slop, or sludge. The food is delicious and actually resembles food, which makes a nice change, but the hole is still there. Mr. Atkins asks for Denise. The staff whisper amongst themselves. They won't tell him that Mrs. Atkins died two Christmases ago.

Maybe it's kind to let him forget?

"She's coming to visit tomorrow, Joe," the nurse replies. His eyes well up.

But maybe it's cruel to let him hope.

Knives and forks scraping plates. That same cough from the woman in the corner. Dessert arrives. It’s sweet and warm. Sticky malva pudding. A little piece of home in each bite. The kind of meal that would make even the oldest of crones feel like a child again. Safe and held and not a care in the world.

The hole is still there...

But it's covered momentarily by the memory of a mother's love,

the promise of tomorrow. Trying to stay up all night to catch Santa in the act and inevitably falling asleep by the fireplace. The feeling of being carried to bed by your dad, who is still strong enough to hold you in his arms, and for a second there is hope, a smiling of the eyes.

Love that lingers on beyond the greying of your world.

Dinner is over. The squeaking of wheelchair wheels interrupts the sound of Michael Buble fading away in the distance. A gift from three years ago sits framed on your bedside. The only proof you are loved, or were once. It's been so long it may as well be a stock image of a family you’ve never even met. The clock keeps you company. ‘The time is ten p.m.

The temperature is 16.5 degrees Celsius.’ A reminder that time is passing. Even if you aren't.

In the early hours of the morning there is a commotion in the hallway. Hurried footsteps. Shuffling. Maybe Santa’s come early? The nurses are huddled and talking amongst themselves. "Mr. Atkins” this, "Mr. Atkins” that. Wonder if he’s taken another fall?

There is no alarm bell ringing. No siren. No panic button pressed and no patronizing comment being made. Instead, there is a deafening silence.

A familiar voice appears amongst the whispering. “Must have happened late last night," Dr. Swart informs the nurses. The doctor had paid frail care a few visits over the last two months. For more minor concerns like colds, athlete's foot, diarrhea... Lots of diarrhea...

Planters warts, fever, dry cough, wet cough...ever-present cough. Or, for bigger concerns, like confirming the cause of death.

Four people have died in the last two months.

Zaun Hendricks, 62. Bladder cancer. Elizabeth Wright, 76. Dementia.

Amelia Hulley, 91. Lower Respiratory Infection. Warren Fourie, 83. Stroke.

And now, Joe Atkins, 87.

“He died in his sleep," Swart confirms. “Appears he had a heart attack.” When you think about it, it's a good way to go, really. No long-suffering illness. No horrible accident, or fall you simply “don’t recover from."

No losing your marbles until the wheels fall off entirely. No waiting.

And waiting, and waiting...

Mr. Atkins would see Eileen on Christmas Day after all.

CHAPTER 3

T H E R I N G

Rain hits the roof of the car. “I feel so bad that we didn't visit yesterday,” my mom says with a genuine sadness in her voice. I try to reassure her, although I know it won't work. “It's okay though, there was so much going on, and they had their Christmas Eve dinner! She’ll understand Mom.” I say, ignoring the churning feeling in my stomach.

It's Boxing Day, and we are on our way to visit my granny. The house is locked up; the pets are fed. Gifts have been given out and unwrapped.

Every other work, friend, and familial obligation is out of the way. Finally, we can spend quality time together.

One hour a week. Every Sunday.

We try. We really do. We try our best. But life is so busy, you know? There's work and varsity. And Mom is so busy at work, and I am so busy at varsity. Doing a hundred things at once. Paying bills, completing assignments, seeing friends, going to the gym, running around, grocery shopping, fulfilling endless to-do lists, and never stopping.

Just go, go, go all the time, and Gran stays forty-five minutes away, so it's hard sometimes.

But we love her, and we try to see her as much as we can. “It’s not enough," my mom says, turning the key in the ignition. I half-smile back at her, as if to say, “Well, we are on our way, aren't we?” She lets out a sigh and puts on the radio. The silence between us solidifies the guilt we're both feeling.

Somehow the day has slipped away from us again. We arrive at frail-care at three p.m and park the car next to the only other vehicle in the parking lot. “We’ll leave at 4:15, okay?” My mom says, checking the time on her watch. “Perfect” I reply, in a way that makes me feel gross for even having a life outside of these one-hour visits. I put my phone on airplane mode and leave it under the seat.

Life will just have to wait.

We enter the building and greet the nurses, who are still wearing Santa hats. I imagine it's as much for them as it is for the oldies. Most people want to keep the magic alive for as long as they can; it's good for morale. Why do you think Christmas trees stay up until it starts to feel shameful?

Usually we are greeted by a warm smile, but today, Sister Thandi is hiding behind the front desk, avoiding eye contact. She's probably just annoyed that she's here looking after our families instead of spending time with her own. We hand her a box of chocolates and an apple crumble to share with the rest of the staff. “Thank you, Mrs. Green," she says, letting a small smile appear on her lips.

“It’s a pleasure. "Merry Christmas!” my mom replies, before turning to rush off toward Gran's room. “Oh, Ma'am, before you go...” Thandi says, stopping us in our tracks. “Um...just...before you see your mom..." she continues, signalling us back toward her. “Her memory has been a bit worse today." My mom takes a deep breath, smiles at Thandi, nods, and blows the deep sadness filling her chest out towards the long hallway.

My Granny is 93. “Born in nineteen-thirty-fucking-two," as she liked to remind us on days where she was feeling extra old. You’d swear she’d been a sailor with the words that came out of her mouth at times. Her health was perfect, no serious illness, thank God. But she is blind in one eye and can't see much out the other. Just harsh contrasts, the fuzziness of familiar faces and spaces, and by some miracle, the tiniest speck of something even partially out of place in her room.

She doesn't have dementia, but she can't really remember the details of her early life. Being a child in the war, the bunker her brother built, how strict her mom was, or the time her sister Gloria fell from a tree, which always made Gran laugh because Gloria was, in her words,

"a bit of a cow.”

I’d grown up hearing so many stories about what she got up to at my age. It's so strange to think that the brain just starts erasing all of that.

That being said... would I remember something that happened over eighty years ago? Probably not. Most of us can barely remember what we ate for breakfast yesterday.

My mom's breath hits the back of my neck as she steams ahead, and like some kind of airborne emotional transfer, I am hit with a stomach-churning dread. She storms inside and slings her handbag over the side of Gran’s wheelchair, while I stand in the doorway and gather myself.

Gran is taking a nap. Curled up in her chair. Snoring away... A tiny slither of sunshine resting on the ends of her white hair. She looks so small now. “Hi Gran," I say in my softest voice. “Gran,” I whisper again, trying to wake her. She opens her eyes slowly and searches the room for the source of my voice. “Oh—Mr. What’s—" she tries to say as her eyes catch a glimpse of my equally lanky silhouette in the doorway.

Before she can finish confusing me with the old man who lives across the hall, Mom jumps in to spare both of us from the rude awakening that Gran may not know who we are. "It's us, Mommy!" she says. "Oh," Gran replies as confusion and comfort take turns washing over her face. I rush over and give her the tightest squeeze I can, in the hopes that a familiar embrace will let comfort win.

“Hi, Darling," she says. My feeling was right. She remembers me... and it is like a weight has been lifted. “What day is it? She asks, while

pushing the button to raise the legs of her La-Z-Boy. “It's...Boxing Day, day after Christmas," Mom says, hiding her regret about as well as a squirrel hides acorns in its cheeks.

With that reminder, Gran gets restless in her chair.

I can see where this is going. That she’s veering up to ask us why we didn’t bother to visit on Christmas. Why we left her all alone?

Why would we ever be so cruel as to leave her here in the first place?

I do this well, reading the room. Anticipating disaster before it strikes. Jumping in before someone needs saving.

“How was yesterday, Gran Gran?" I ask, moving over to kneel beside the arm of her chair so that I can talk into her good ear. “Well, Mr. What-his-face—" "Mr. Atkins, you mean.” My mom interjects. “Yes, him. He died yesterday,” Gran says.

I look across the hallway to find his empty bedroom. Just like that... All proof of Mr. Atkins was gone.

“Lucky bugger!” Gran adds. Pretending I didn't hear her say that, I ask about one of her favorite things. Food. “Did you have a nice supper yesterday?” “I don't know." She replies, shaking her head in frustration. “That's okay," I say, reassuring her. She starts to wriggle her feet in her fluffy socks like a cat wags its tail when it's irritated. “Maybe it was a roast? ” I ask, trying my best to keep things light. “It was probably bloody awful was what it was," she says, without missing a beat.

I share a look with my mom, and her lips turn up into what almost resembles the first sincere smile I’ve seen on her face all day. One thing is for certain... Gran still has her sense of humour. Some things just don't disappear. No matter how much life tries to erase them.

Mom has defrosted. She comes to sit on the edge of the bed, takes hold of Gran's small hand, and asks how she's been. “I’m alright, I suppose...” Gran says. There is a long silence. And then-

“I tried to kill myself last night." She drops the atomic bomb.

My heart sinks.

Like it had been thrown off the deep end, with an anchor tied to it,

lower than I ever thought possible.

Still thinking this is some kind of cruel attempt at attention because we didn't visit on Christmas Day, Mom lets out a half-laugh. “What? No, you didn't, Mommy! "My granny is many things, but a liar is not one of them. "No, you didn’t, Mom." My mom says again, her eyes and face all squished together like a chewed piece of gum. “I saved up my sleeping tablets,” Gran says. I shuffle away from the arm of her chair, like a wounded animal...This was not a sick joke after all.

As I said, I anticipate disaster before it strikes. I just didn't see this particular disaster coming. How did we miss it? How did the staff miss it? They administer those tablets each night. How? How did this happen?

Gran can't fall asleep without those tablets. She's taken one every night without fail for as long as I can remember.

Before I can ask any one of the thousands of questions running through my mind, Gran answers one. “I saved them up for ten days,” she says.

Ten days.

Mom and I sit there in silence. Picturing the woman we both love so much, sitting alone on Christmas. In this cold grey room.

Holding ten tablets in between her wrinkled fingers and deciding, this was it.

I don't know what to say. Do I hug her? Do I tell her I'm sorry? That I am so, so sorry that I wasn't there. That I am relieved, despite her apparent disappointment. Part of me is angry, part of me understands, and most of me is trying everything not to let the dam walls burst.

“How could you do that?” My mom asks, watching me hold back tears. “Well, what am I holding on for? Gran replies.

What is she holding on for, other than these sixty minutes?

Sixty minutes out of the one hundred thousand and eighty minutes that make up a week.

When you put it like that. You see it differently. She is alive for sixty minutes and waiting for the rest. “We love you!" We love you, Mom!” Don’t you understand that? I love you. Is that not enough for you?” My mom asks, salty droplets beginning to form on the bottom of her own eyelashes now. Suddenly, I see her as a little girl. A little girl begging her mom to love her enough to stick around.

Gran is frustrated. She is sitting upright in her chair, her arm waving in the air in a way that tells me she wants us to listen. “I want to die!” she says, raising her voice. I turn away from her so that she won't see the snot and tears that are streaming down my cheeks or the puddles I have created on her tiled floors.

“I pray that God will take me home, but he doesn’t listen!” she says.

I want to tell her that He does listen. I want to tell her through my snot and my tears that I pray that she will live a long and healthy life. That I pray for her protection every morning, and every night. That He listened to my prayers and He listened to Mom's prayers.

That most people don't make it to this age. Most people don't have the luxury of living in a place like this. Most people aren't provided for, cared for, fed, housed and clothed. But it is no use, because all she will see is the emptiness of those six days where we aren't here. And I understand.

Realizing by my silence that I've been crying, Gran reaches her hand out toward me. “I'm sorry, Darling. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. "I can tell that she means it.“You didn't, Gran, it's okay," I lie, getting up to leave. “It is not okay!” my mom yells. I stare at her, silently pleading that she please, please, please leave it. This is bad enough as it is, without it turning into an argument.

“The time is four p.m, the temperature is 17 degrees Celsius.” Everything in me wants to make the most of these last 15 minutes, but right now I am holding myself together by a thread. "Are you happy now, Mommy?” Mom asks, adding insult to injury. I give Gran a hug. “Just going to the car, I love you.” "I say," as I walk toward the doorway.

Across the hall, the hollowness of Mr. Atkins’ room hits me like a truck. Plainer, greyer and more void than ever before. I picture for a moment, that that could have been her. Thandi is still sitting behind the desk. This time I am the one avoiding eye contact. "Um... Thandi," I say, trying to push the tsunami of emotion back down my throat. “Could you, um, just let me? —Without having to finish my sentence, Thandi opens the gate.

As I walk out into the parking lot, I hear my mom's raised voice in the distance. Suddenly I am small again and wanting with everything in me for it all to be okay.

But, unlike when I was a child,

I now know that there are some things you just cannot fix.

CHAPTER 4

M E M O R Y

Over the next three months Gran had weekly check-ups with the doctor to monitor her symptoms and make sure she wasn't tempted to test fate again.

Unfortunately, her memory never really came back after the incident. In fact, in the words of Dr. Swart, her memory seemed to deteriorate almost overnight. I still don’t understand how that just happens. “Well, you see...” Swart says in a voice that implies a total lack of EQ. “The use of sleeping tablets over the span of many years does unfortunately

increase the risk of Alzheimer’s and dementia. Picture her brain was a big block of cheese that mice have been eating little holes into over time, and as time goes on, those holes get bigger, so you know, things start being "erased," per se.”

“You can't help it, can you?” Mom asks, with the faintest semblance of hope in her eyes. “If it were that simple, Ma’am, we would.”

What a dick, I think to myself. If only I could forget this conversation.

We arrive, perfectly punctual, with all of the admin out of the way so that we can be here and only here. Gran still knows who we are, but everything else has faded away. More immediate memories, like breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and past ones, like the last 93 years of her life.

“The time is three p.m, the temperature is 18.4 degrees Celsius”.

Like clockwork, Gran gets up from the chair, her left leg so bent it looks like an upright boomerang.

It seemed the less Gran could remember, the more she needed to be in control of everything. It began with counting the number of sips she took in sets of five when drinking water, and ensuring that she drank exactly four and a half glasses before 4pm each day. Next was insiting we brought extras of everything. Something was always empty or on the verge of, even though it had just been replaced: soap, toothpaste, body lotion, hand lotion, and Movicol... just in case the food was stodgy again.

The most recent addition to her list of compulsions was going to the bathroom every hour, on the hour. "Mommy, just sit down, won’t you?" my mom says, pointing in the direction of the La-Z-Boy. Like a sergeant major on a mission, Gran insists that she must go! “Why?” Mom asks, glueing Gran to the floor, her face contorting as if this were the first time she’d actually stopped to consider why she was getting up in the first place.

“Oh leave me!” She yells, arms swinging in the air. “I can't remember!” Gran has this scared look in her eyes, like a child who has just woken up from a nightmare.

Between the ages of four and seven my dreams were so intense that sometimes it took me over an hour to come right again after waking up. Mom told me I used to struggle to differentiate what I'd been dreaming from reality, more often than not waking up totally disoriented, crying, or in fits of rage. One time, I asked her over and over again to take me home, even though we were standing in my bedroom.

I imagine that is as close as I’ll get to understanding how Gran is feeling.

“I can't remember." She says again, searching the room, as if something in it will give her the answer. It doesn’t. Mom guides Gran, still frozen in place, back to her lazy boy.

"Well, I remember..." I start to say, squeezing my body into the left side of the chair.

I place my fist in the middle of Gran's palm and twist my hand in hers, something I used to do as a child that always seemed to bring me comfort.

I hope it does the same for her.

“You used to pick me up from tennis every Tuesday and Friday, without fail. Never late, always thirty minutes early.” Which meant more than I would ever admit out loud. “I’d come back from our half-time water break and see your blonde hair and huge, fabulous sunglasses,

sitting like Miranda Priestly, under the boma at court three.

You watched me play with the same excitement you had watching Djokovic, except luckily for me, and the kids I was playing against, you didn't get up and yell when things got hairy.”

Gran lets out a small chuckle, her eyes soft now, as if she were picturing it in her mind's eye.

“You told me that I had to be the grandchild that played at Wimbledon. Considering I was in grade two and did social tennis, the chances were unlikely, but you believed in me. So much so that we spent weekday afternoons and weekend mornings at the tennis court by your house perfecting my serve, backhand, and both of our patience. You never let me give up, no matter how many balls you had to fetch from the no-man's-land on the other side of the court in the process" Which, now that I think about it, taught me far more than any “real” lesson ever did.

“On this particular day the sun was beaming down, a blistering 39 degrees, that felt more like 45. The joys of February in Cape Town, where you think summer's ending, but actually the ozone layer is about as thin as the legs of a mosquito. So, non-existent really.

As usual, you hadn't been able to park the car in the shade, because every stay-at-home mom in an outrageously sized Land Rover had taken up two parking bays, which meant little old Betsy, your white, slightly rusted car, who was already worse for wear, was overheating.

Nevertheless, I hopped into the well-baked backseat and got tucked into the lunchbox you’d packed for me: salted TUC biscuits, three Melrose cheeses to put on top, and an apple Lucozade. Which was the only flavour I'd ever tried up until last year, because, if it was your favorite, it must be the best.

We made it half a kilometer down the road before you realized Betsy might not make it back home over the mountain, so we stopped at the nearest shady spot we could find: the underground parking lot car wash at the mall close to school to let her cool down for a few hours.

As the kid that googled the exact number of crashes Qantas had in each Boeing 747 before she flew to Australia, you’d think I would've been afraid of an overheating car on the verge of combustion.

But I wasn't, because I was with you, and if I was with you, I knew everything would be okay.” Gran's eyes wet like dew on a leaf. “I feel like having a good howl.” Gran says. Which was her way of saying she wanted to cry, but wasn’t going to... because if she started, she wouldn't be able to stop.

Mom chimes in now, “Do you remember the time we ran around the village starkers?” Gran's eyes widen. “Oh nonsense, I wouldn't do that!” she says. And oh yes, she most certainly would! “You’d just moved into the retirement village, and we decided that we wanted to celebrate the moment, so you poured us each a drink. I had a whiskey, and you had a cane and coke. We stood outside in our towels for a moment, and I asked you if you were sure about this. True as nuts, you took my hand, dropped your towel on the front lawn, said, "Fuck it!” and ran down the road in all your glory.

“I must have been quite hot in my day," Gran says, tucking her hair cheekily behind one ear. "All the boys loved you! Not that you paid them much mind," Mom adds, having a good chuckle to herself. “One of the old ladies who’d seen us running up and down the road called the estates manager Chantel and reported us, who then drove over in her golf cart to tell us that we had best get ourselves inside immediately! To which you replied, "Oh, get stuffed!” and ran off, laughing your head off the whole way home. One way to make an impression, alright!”

Gran throws her head back and lets out what sounds like an orangutan on happy gas. I haven't heard her laugh like that in years. All three of us are hysterical, to the point that Mom has keeled over, Gran is gripping the arm of her chair, and I think I might just pee my pants any moment now.

That smile stayed unmoving on Gran's face for the rest of our visit, the skin above her lip curled up beneath her nose, that same cheeky smile I have known since birth.

Maybe more than remembering, we want to be remembered. Seen in a way we’ve never seen ourselves.

CHAPTER 5

E D E N

The following week I decided I wanted to pop in and surprise Gran early. It was only Tuesday, but she had been on my mind, and I had the day off, so I thought, why not?

On the way in I saw Thandi, in her usual spot behind the counter. "Ah, what are you doing here so early in the week?” she asked, looking at me like she’d been caught in the act. “Just wanted to see Gran.” I reply, not paying any mind to her weirdness. "Oh, she's just showering now..." Thandi says, suggestively raising her hand in the direction of the chairs by the front desk. Strange, that's only tomorrow, I think to myself. “I’ll just go to her room and wait for her there!” "No—um," Thandi starts to say.

"Don't worry, Thandi! I’m happy to wait, really!” I head down the corridor and get to Gran's room. She has a new neighbour... Someone named Maggie, 63. A spring chicken! As Gran would say.

As I suspected, Gran is in her room after all. Sitting in her chair. One of the other nurses, a trainee who I hadn't met before, is kneeling beside her. Now I understand why Thandi had been so timid. While wrapping a bandage around the middle of Gran's arm, the trainee informs me that she had “taken a tumble” on her way to the bathroom in the early hours of this morning. They didn't even bother to call.

“Thanks for the update," I say, in a tone that comes off slightly more peeved than I initially intended. The trainee gets up nervously. “Just a small accident, but all is okay now, Ma’am!” she says, heading out. “Who’s that?” Gran asks, squinting. "It's me, Ganna," I say, coming toward her.

Still nothing.

I can tell by the shaking of her head. “It's me!” Oh please let her remember me. "Please," I think to myself. “Your Pumpkin!... Your granddaughter.” The fog begins to lift. “My... granddaughter...” she says, like someone is wiping the mist off the glass of her eyes. I lick the salt off my lips as I smile. “Is it Sunday already?” She asks. “No, I just missed you!” I say, giving her the tightest, bear-iest hug I can without hurting the scrape on her arm.

The sun is shining today. “Come on, you old sod, we're going for a walk!”

I put Gran in her wheelchair and take her down into the garden. She hadn't been outside at all in the last three months, other than for her doctor's visits. Gran isn’t in the most talkative of moods today, but I don’t mind, I'm just happy to be with her.

I wheel her round the garden, giant sunglasses on, a light breeze blowing in her curls, and the warmth of the sun on our backs.

“I can't see much,” she reminds me. “No, but you can listen," I say. We stop on the deck, Egyptian geese squawking in the distance.

Not usually a sound Gran would have appreciated, but it beats the

squawking of nurses and beeping of machines in the frail-care.

The bees are buzzing in the bottlebrush tree above us. Water flowing gently under the bridge and Gran's favourite: baby guinea fowl, walking along the bank of the stream.

As we get back to Gran’s room, the clock goes off. “The time is 3pm,

the temperature is 25.9 degrees Celsius.” I was supposed to be meeting a friend in thirty minutes, but I wanted to stay for a little while longer.

I kneel down alongside the La-Z-Boy and pray. Our little tradition.

Gran asked Mom and I to do this at the end of every visit, each taking turns to “Amen” one note higher than whoever had said it last.

"Aaaaaaa-men," Gran says. "Aaaaaaaaa-men!" I repeat back.

Gran gazes up at me and smiles; putting her face right up to mine, really taking me in. I can't help but smile back at her. The two of us sit there in silence for a moment, just staring at one another...

“You have such a beautiful face," she says.

“Well, I borrowed it from you, so you can thank yourself for that," I reply with a grin.

Gran looks at me for a while longer, like she can actually see me, despite her blindness. “Thank you for loving me," she says,

taking a hold of my hands.

My phone beeps to tell me that my Uber has arrived. “Thank you for loving me!... Last touch!” I say, tapping Gran's arm as I get up to leave. A game we used to play when I was small. Without a moment's hesitation, Gran crosses her fingers and says, “Nix! No take backs!”

She remembered.

Even if just for a moment. She remembered. She saw my face in front of hers and knew me, and knew that she was loved.

As I start to walk away, looking out at the hall ahead, I can’t help but go running back. “It’s me again," I say, giving Gran an extra squeeze.

"I just wanted to tell you how much I love you." “Thank you, darling," she replies.

“You don't have to thank me, Ganna." I say, tears streaming down my face.

“Last touch nicky, no take backs!” Gran says, lifting her hand to touch my shoulder.

In that moment I knew. She knew and I knew...

That this time was different.

CHAPTER 6

H O M E

In the early hours of the morning my phone rings. The bright white of the screen hits my face as I check the time. 4:46am. It's Mom... It's Mom. I stand up. Maybe it's not what I think it is. Maybe Mom just can't sleep? Yeah, she just can’t sleep. That makes sense...

Hands trembling as I grip my phone, deciding whether or not I want to know the answer.

I pick up. “Mom? ” I say, replying to the silence on the other end of the line. "Hello?—"

“Granny is in heaven.”

All she said were those four words. I drop to the floor.

My feeling was right, as it always had been.

It doesn’t matter how long you've been preparing yourself for the worst, you’re never really ready when it comes. I lie on the ground like a wrestler who had just received a knockout punch to the gut, and sob.

The soft carpet absorbs me, until the birds begin chirping.

I tie up my hair, put on my slippers, and meet Mom at the entrance to frail-care. The sky is bright pink. I greet Mom with a hug and neither of us want to let go.

All of the nurses lined up in a row, greet us with an array of “I'm sorry for your loss" expressions glued to their faces.

Sister Thandi comes out from behind the desk and places a hand on my shoulder...

"Dr. Swart told us she passed peacefully in her sleep."

As we enter her room, that same white light streams through the tiny slit in the curtains onto the headrest of the lazy boy.

Her outline still indented in the cushions.

I open Gran's cupboard, grab my favorite jacket, and put it on.

Leather on the outside and wool on the inside, soft, like a blanket. The nature of the jacket, not dissimilar to Gran’s.

I must have asked for this coat a hundred times, but Gran was adamant that I could only have it after she’d died.

As much as Gran had been holding out hope that she would go, there was still a part of her that clung onto the possibility that there might just be an occasion special enough for her to wear it again.

I take a deep breath in and engulf myself in her smell. I only wanted it because it was the one she wore the most.

The photo of the three of us still next to her bed. Mom and I stand there, looking out at the emptiness and cry some more.

It doesn't matter how many tears you think you have in you; there will always be more.

As we leave, a guinea fowl feather floats through the air next to me. Gran’s way of letting us know she’d arrived home.

CHAPTER 7

L A S T D A N C E

Today would've been Gran's 94th birthday.

Mom and I are sitting on Llandudno Beach in her favorite spot.

A rainbow of warmth; orange, yellow, and red, reflecting off the water as the sun starts to melt into the ocean.

Gran always hated the idea of a traditional funeral. As far as she was concerned, being buried was a waste of land, funerals were a waste of money, and no relative of hers would be subjected to crying at a casket on a rickety pew.

The two of us sit for a moment, breathing in the fresh air, barefoot in our flowy skirts, with our toes in the sand. Joy and grief co-existing in and amongst our laughter and tears.

We wait for the sun to disappear behind the waves, and the last of the stragglers to go home before pouring two cane and cokes and lighting our illegal bonfire. “This Is My Life” by Shirley Bassey plays on my speaker, as we scatter Gran’s ashes. Mom and I singing along with reckless abandon.

I watch the particles moving through the air, being lifted up by the flames. It is almost as if I can see Gran dancing around the fire with us. The light in her curls, leopard-print pants on, and that skin above her lip curled up beneath her nose as she smiles back at me.

The three of us, birds of a feather, ring-around-a-rosy-ing alongside the glow, without a care in the world.

And I will remember her that way.

Graphic 10

A B O U T T H E A U T H O R

Kerry Black is a multidisciplinary Image 11

storyteller from Cape Town, whose work spans acting, writing, directing and photography.

The first story I ever wrote was

scribbled in red koki across seven small squares of white paper ( stolen from my grans note book) and stapled together on her kitchen counter. The cover was decorated

with hand-drawn doodles and the most special stickers from my sticker book.

I don' t remember the story itself, but I do remember how it felt to create it. Sharing my words is a privilege I will never take for

granted.

Whether I' m working on screen, on stage, or on the page, I am drawn to telling stories that remind us of our shared humanity. I hope my work

helps people remember— someone they

loved, something that moves them, or a part of themselves they may have lost

along the way.

When we have the courage to give a voice to something deeply personal,

we give it the chance to become a tool that fosters vulnerability and

connection— reminding us that no

matter how singular our experiences may feel at times, we are universally understood.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event that celebrates the art of storytelling across various forms and genres. It invites participants from all corners of the globe to share their unique voices and creative visions. This competition is a platform for writers to express themselves freely and connect with a wider audience, fostering a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts and creatives.

We extend our deepest gratitude to Kerry Black for her poignant contribution, "Of A Feather," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her storytelling offers a touching exploration of themes that resonate universally, reminding readers of the profound connections that define our humanity. Thank you, Kerry, for sharing your voice and enriching the tapestry of this year's competition with your beautiful narrative.

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.