He got the word in Singapore
That his father had passed away.
He’d be returning home once more -
He never thought he’d see that day.
They were at odds with each other,
By the time that he reached his teens.
Then, with the death of his mother,
He’d had enough of shouting scenes.
He just couldn’t please the old man,
Who sought perfection in his son.
He took all that any boy can,
And, after that last fight, he’d run.
Just sixteen then, but fully grown,
And very mature for his age,
He yearned to be out on his own,
Far away from his father’s rage.
After a long flight, he was there,
Carrying his bags up the walk.
He moved erect, with shoulders square,
Recalling their last angry talk.
His father had struck him that time,
Even though he’d warned him before.
"If you should hit me again, I’m
Gone and you will see me no more."
With bloodied nose, upstairs he’d run,
Determined to pack his suitcase.
A father drove off his one son -
He would vanish without a trace.
Down the ivy had climbed the boy,
Tendrils giving way in his hands.
Reading the will would bring no joy,
He’d become rich in foreign lands.
Yet, he’d trade all that mournful day -
Every single million he’d earned,
To hug his dad and hear him say,
"I love you," to the son he’d spurned.