It is a perfect autumn day in Cape Town. As I make my first cuppa of the day, I catch myself singing Sunday Morning Coming Down. There is something to a Sunday. There is longing in me for so many things I have lost in a life of almost 61 years.
Kris Kristofferson – Sunday morning coming down (1970)
Jerry Shows UP
Jerry showed up again. Short pants, open sandals, thin shirt. What will Patel say? He has rained out and his clothes are drying. I give him a raincoat I kept out for him. Obviously, he appreciates it. Puts it on. When I come back with coffee and food, he tells me he is sending it home. “Why,” I ask. “Because it is even colder at home and I will need something warm when I am old.” Logic there. I reply: “No, wear it, I give it to you so that you can grow old.”
I boil some take-away eggs. He asks for more takeaway bread and salt. He gets it. He gets some apple crumble and cream. Pudding for a Sunday. He does not say anything, but he looks at it very dubiously. Wonder if he likes it?
As I hand him the takeaway salt, he leaves.
Halfway to the street he turns around, points his finger at me and says: “Thank you. I will be back. Probably sometime this week.”
I Hope YOU Survive The Virus, Jerry
I hope you come back, Jerry. I hope you survive the virus. I wish there were more we could do. I say a word that I cannot type about everybody involved with state capture and a government too busy enriching themselves. My wish for those involved with state capture and their extended families to the nth generation I will not print either. In Ireland I bought a book about forgiving by Desmond Tutu and his daughter, perhaps I should read it and stop postponing!
My heart goes out to the Jerrys of this world. They are the conscience of our society, reminding us of things gone wrong and a lack of will to repair it.
There goes Jerry. But for the grace of God, there goes I!
I listen to Streets of London again, because I have to!
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