Red Roses and Blue Wigs: A Tribute to Edward Mellerick

I keep replaying the last time I saw you. Were there any clues I missed? Were you in more pain than usual? Sad? Miserable? But, no, I think you were your usual flamboyant self as you drilled me for the details of my son’s dance date.

You made me angry sometimes. “Have I come here to be abused? Whose hair is this anyway?” I learnt to go with the flow, shed the objections with the hair dropping onto the floor. And then you’d pronounce, “You look beautiful. If only I was ten years younger…”

“Yes, Edward, and straight…”

“Oh, shut up and get your lipstick out the bag.” You’d raise your eyebrows in despair at me never having the magic wand you thought could fix any mood.

You lived vicariously through all of us, your loyal followers.

“How are the beautiful babies?” (never mind that they were adults now) and then, like a praise-singer, you’d recall their achievements and milestones from first haircut (which you insisted on giving even though you had no patience for cutting children’s hair), relating the story of my son, aged 9 or 10, being interviewed regarding playing chess, (“… and then the interviewer asked him so what was your shortest game? Five minutes. And against who? Pause for dramatic effect … with sheer delight at the answer – my dad!), my daughter’s matric dance (who is that bouncer she’s taking?), her graduation and her save-the-world sojourns to foreign places. My trips to Sweden were deliberately confused with Switzerland; my flippant answer to your question, what’s the Muslim version of a kugel? (a koeksister) got retold many times.

You’d embarrass me by running through a richly-embellished version of my life every time you introduced me to someone – “from virgin to mother of 6” – adding details about life on campus, meeting my husband and having kids, weaving in overseas trips and the accomplishments of various members of the family … you took as much pride in my return to studies after many years as if you really were the brother you told people you were.

“When those hands get too tired to work you should write,” I said. “We’ll get you onto that computer yet.” I’m writing this for you now. You would’ve loved a blog all to yourself, although you probably wouldn’t have been able to find it on the internet you viewed with such suspicion.

I’m going to remember you for the single rose that used to arrive on my birthday from “the other man”, slobbering me with kisses, your beautiful garden, the enormous displays of flowers that greeted us when we came to visit you, getting ready for functions and you booming at me – “colour? colour!” – and the collections for all your charities every Christmas in lieu of gifts and, most of all for the time you walked down the hallowed corridors of Vincent Pallotti hospital to cheer me up post-op, wearing your blue wig. Thank you for making me laugh.