I am in my father’s house. In the room where I woke up crying “ I want my mommy” after my mother died on the operating table during what was supposed to be a routine procedure. No warning. No goodbye.

This house and this place, Stellenbosch, evoke a myriad of diverse memories  and feelings for me.  Some of them wonderful and moving. Others not so much. Downright grim some of them are.

We visited my maternal grandmother here when I was a child. Later as a student I strode back to my res with an armful of inca lilies from her garden in Rowan  Street.  A young man almost feel off his bicycle at the sight. A random cameo I have always treasured as a fond memory of my life as a student here.

Our visits when I was a child are linked in my mind to the sound of doves. Today as I woke up, I was surprised to hear birds.

This house, this place has changed so much. As places do. My father’s house is now surrounded by monstrous blocks of student accommodation. Modern boxes filled with noise and aggravation for the unfortunate neighbours.

Arriving here yesterday I had to negotiate parked cars blocking half the road with the other half obscured by two chatting students and another on a skateboard with music blaring from his person. My father’s yard was strewn with rubbish thrown over the fence without a thought.

My father is surely earning himself the reputation of neighbor from hell.  He is in a constant state of battle and spends  a great deal of his time writing letters of protest to all and sundry. Or phoning those supposedly in charge of this lot. Only to hear the parents can’t believe their children are so callous and inconsiderate!

For the umpteenth time I tell my father it is futile. Not a battle he can win.

He pretends to listen and returns to his windmill jousting  as soon as I am otherwise occupied.

I am phoning people to try and find homes for his precious papers, books and equipment – a lifetime of academic work and knowledge. Trying to support him to simplify  his life. So that he can move to a  place where he will have peace and quiet. Something my brothers and I have been urging him to do for years now – to no avail. Now at the age of ninety his time is running out and he knows it.

Last night we talked about many things: writing and death and what needs to be done.  He tells me earnestly of his desire to leave a legacy.  I understand and realize  my youngest brother, Jacques, is so right about how important his stuff is to him and why. I want to wail after a day of trying to help –  that this will never work. No solution will be good enough or right unless it is his idea. Executed his way!

And then I realize the more things change ,  the more they stay the same. The birds still sing in Stellenbosch.

My father already has a legacy.

We are his legacy. My two brothers and me. He will live on in us. In our propensity to fight battles we cannot win, our love of books, our love for him and one another.