Jamie Furness    March 12, 2023    2 min read   

By Marge Breitenbach, who grew up in South Africa.

Vale, my friend. A black typewriter sits on the desk. Below it are handwritten letters.
Vale, my friend. Story by Marge Breitenbach, who grew up in South Africa. Photo by Dominika Roseclay.

It was a sad, heartfelt goodbye. 

Just to think that you have gone forever to that cold cemetery where the wind can howl incessantly through the trees.

We have been so very close for a very long time – actually many years! You were my first very special friend. 

We have travelled together the many highways and byways, stopping for an elephant to cross the road. 

Then there was the day we came across old Scarface, trudging alone, kicked out from the tribe.

His scars told a story of a vigorous life nearing its own end.

It was seldom necessary to turn on the radio as we were so comfortable with each other. 

For thousands of years the thorn trees have been part of the fabric of the veldt and as we often pass them, I’ll always think of you because of the unusual bush, its naked beauty and unaware what lurks behind it. 

You were always so reassuring when I voiced my fears.

It was my grandfather, Dadda, who introduced us. I was smitten from the outset. Black as the Ace of Spades you were with supple, aromatic full grain leather upholstery. 

You were my twenty-first birthday present and my very first car.

Flair Writer’s Group meets on the 1st Tuesday of the month at Inala Library from 9:00 am until noon. For further info contact Tom on 0402 019 612.

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Jamie Furness