21 Gunga Din

As I leaned forward to kiss my Father on his forehead I noticed his chin, something strange, what was it?

He badly needed a shave, always so meticulous about his hygiene and appearance, how many mornings had I stood and watched, fascinated as he explained and demonstrated the process, the ritual, first, wash your face with ordinary soap, then, with water as hot as you can bear, apply the brush and shaving cream, Palmolive, the old scent is gone now. Then the blade, leaving his skin even softer it seemed, than mine.

Occasionally he would reach down, dab some cream on my face and shave me with a bladeless razor. Delicious! 'You're a better man than I am GUNGA DIN' he would say.

What was this then? The last time I'd seen him was around 11:00pm the night before as he left my hotel to drive home with a clean chin. He died within the hour at the wheel of his car. Now, here in the morgue, fifty miles away and twelve hours later, he badly needed a shave.

Yes, that is him, William, yes… yes! I stumbled through the formalities of identification “would you please make sure someone gives him a shave before … before! Before what? I thought, turning away trying to hold my composure.

So … whiskers growing on a dead man's chin, sounds like a sea shanty. All of my father's being in me became focused at that time.

These were the words I wrote to accompany the song as it appeared in 'Dreamcatcher', it's just part of the stuff of my spiritual library. The rest of the song is other dreamings.