Well here I am, sitting at the Port Elizabeth airport. Again. At least this time I’m not rushing off to a funeral. The last time I flew out of here was on November 12, 2007. The day my father passed away.
Strange that I start thinking about this again. It’s probably got to be because of the song I’m listening to.
For years my dad sang a particular song – just the opening two lines, because he could never remember the rest of it. Or what it was called. He would wander up and down the passage in his faded blue rugby shorts, singing at the top of his voice. Just the first two lines
A few months after my dad fell into the coma (he remained in the coma for fourteen and a half months before his body finally gave up) I came back to my digs to hear Mike, my best friend and digsmate, playing this song that my dad always used to sing. And now, Dad, I know the next line. And what it’s called.
Jeremiah was a bullfrog
He was a good friend of mine
I never understood a single word he said
But I helped him drink his wine
And he always had some mighty fine wine
~ Joy to the World by Three Dog Night
It was only after my father fell into a vegitative state that I realised there was so much I still wanted to ask him. One of the most serious errors we make as children is to assume that our parents will be around forever, and in doing so we take them for granted. And now that he’s gone, I’ll never get him back.
I have no father for my 21st birthday, no father to walk me down the aisle or advise me on parenting. No father to sit at my graduation and beam with pride, no father to cry with me when I break up with my boyfriend.
Well, here’s to my last holiday in this town, as well as the first time I shall meet my mother’s new boyfriend. The woman moves on quickly.
I’m a high-life flyer and a rainbow rider, a straight-shooting son-of-a-gun
