A Sad Goodbye
.
A buddy passed away recently. He was only 36 years old.
He was not my best friend, but he was well on his way to becoming a good friend. Now, every Tuesday, I’d say that it is exactly two, three or four weeks since he left us. When we went to pick him up at the airport and then proceeded to the masjid for the funeral prayers, it was hard to believe that a friend of mine was in the plywood coffin that I helped carry. One who said goodbye to me a month ago because he was taking up a new posting. One who said that we’d play golf again when he comes back.
Both of us would light up whenever we meet. I’d step on his pointy shoes once in a while, just to rile him up. I hate it when I send him a message and when he replied, he’d apologise for he’s in Dubai, Bangkok, Jakarta or God knows where. Then later, out of the blue I’d get a message for a round of golf. And we’d play golf when he’s back in town.
He’s the only person who dares to sing the song “Fanatik” when we go out serenading ourselves. I’m no fan of KRU but I’d be hooting the loudest after he’s done. And he’d press the buttons on the remote a few more times and always, always, he’d choose “Broken Wings” and “Babe” for me. I’d belt out a bad rendition of that Mr. Mister’s song and maybe a slightly better version of the Styx’s number. And we’d laugh after I’m done. A little bit more, a little bit more, then I would have gotten it, he’d say. Yes, always a little bit more. Then we’d push the envelope a bit more and try “Istana Menanti” and “Suci Dalam Debu”, sing ourselves hoarse and then laugh some more, a lot more, for these songs have a long way to go in our repertoire, not a bit more like some others.
I’ll miss his messages. There’ll be no more messages to hate.
I’ll miss him picking out songs for me. There’ll be no more excuses to sing badly.
I’ll miss his fair face, shoes and his funny golf ball pouch.
I’ll miss him.
.
A buddy passed away recently. He was only 36 years old.
He was not my best friend, but he was well on his way to becoming a good friend. Now, every Tuesday, I’d say that it is exactly two, three or four weeks since he left us. When we went to pick him up at the airport and then proceeded to the masjid for the funeral prayers, it was hard to believe that a friend of mine was in the plywood coffin that I helped carry. One who said goodbye to me a month ago because he was taking up a new posting. One who said that we’d play golf again when he comes back.
Both of us would light up whenever we meet. I’d step on his pointy shoes once in a while, just to rile him up. I hate it when I send him a message and when he replied, he’d apologise for he’s in Dubai, Bangkok, Jakarta or God knows where. Then later, out of the blue I’d get a message for a round of golf. And we’d play golf when he’s back in town.
He’s the only person who dares to sing the song “Fanatik” when we go out serenading ourselves. I’m no fan of KRU but I’d be hooting the loudest after he’s done. And he’d press the buttons on the remote a few more times and always, always, he’d choose “Broken Wings” and “Babe” for me. I’d belt out a bad rendition of that Mr. Mister’s song and maybe a slightly better version of the Styx’s number. And we’d laugh after I’m done. A little bit more, a little bit more, then I would have gotten it, he’d say. Yes, always a little bit more. Then we’d push the envelope a bit more and try “Istana Menanti” and “Suci Dalam Debu”, sing ourselves hoarse and then laugh some more, a lot more, for these songs have a long way to go in our repertoire, not a bit more like some others.
I’ll miss his messages. There’ll be no more messages to hate.
I’ll miss him picking out songs for me. There’ll be no more excuses to sing badly.
I’ll miss his fair face, shoes and his funny golf ball pouch.
I’ll miss him.
.
posted by dudae_simboyo at 08:54
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