There is a hole in my heart

What would I do to be in Manica today, to sit on the camping chair (the one Short keeps in his store room for me - the one he brings when he sees me down in the machessa) with my backpack filled with 'n flask of coffee, milk, sugar, maybe a rusk that my dear friend Colette baked, with a stack of books - that I seldom touch, with my camera that I use only on the odd occasion, what would I do to be there NOW. Today it feels like I am prepared for the 12 hour plus trip to Manica, for the long rows at the borders, for the silly things the police do when they pull you over to complain about your dirty car, or the AF-RO-DAWID ( in South Africa we call this a affidavit) we need to give the driver permission to drive in Zimbabwe (this is different to the expected driver license). Today I am willing to wash the Gallo's soccer clothers after soccer practice - with my hands, if I could only have one peaceful morning in the machessa. I miss my friend Zambito, I miss Violet, I miss Mr Man, I miss - so many faces, the smells of the market, a pao with butro and freshly bought tomatoes, en lettuce, and abagat. Yes I even miss the noice - that never seized.
I think a piece of my heart has been ripped out, the edges scored - impossible to heal. This feeling reminds me to keep my heart open to love, to keep giving. Without these memories and experiences, I would be so much poorer.