THE DAY THAT PADFOOT DIED

THE DAY THAT PADFOOT DIED
31st of January MMXVIII, 
as the author, Sandra Dermark, turned 26
A Cathartic Afterthought on Life, the Universe, and Everything
as the author reminisces about her adolescence.


Long, long time ago...
I can still remember
all those things that used to make me smile...
That maybe if I had a chance
to spread bright colours, song and dance,
I'd make everyone happy for a while...
But one day in the bleak November,
that I distinctly still remember...
bad news on the doorstep...
couldn't take one more step...
I can't remember if I cried,
but I couldn't take that scene in stride...
for something touched me deep inside
the day... that Padfoot died.

I started singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

Did you expect to come of age,
and change your part upon the stage,
if life's script would tell you so?
And... are you a prisoner on parole
or a husk of flesh without a soul?
Time without distractions, why is it real slow?
Well I know that nothing is the same,
and that status quo is always lame...
Thus came the moment of truth,
when I was the least ready in sooth...
I was a lonely teen left on her own,
always worlds away from the Iron Throne,
but I first knew I was all alone
the day... that Lars, José, and Ana died.

I started singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

Now for three years I was left on my own,
with Maths for a Sisyphean stone...
but that's not how it used to be...
in those days I dreamt that Sirius Black
would storm in on his bike to take me back
and I would clasp his waist and feel real free...
And right then, the dowager Lestrange
had turned push to shove, to shock, to change...
I looked on, frozen, with dread...
in the hope that he wouldn't be dead!
And while weariness weighed down my heart,
I read like Lieutenant Bonaparte,
and I felt free as I drifted apart
the day... that Padfoot died.

I still was singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps on at this petty pace of sorrow
still, from day to day, till "not today!"
The Bastille had fallen; et voilà,
came all those Amis led by Enjolras,
rallying against the ancien régime from their café...
From the barricades, the tricolore
would flutter on for evermore...
Yet empty chairs by empty tables
they left, with each surname on a label!
And while Georgie cradled his brother Fred,
two left their orphan boy called Ted,
and my Potter-head felt heavy as lead
the day... les Amis, Moony, Tonks, and Fred died.

I kept on singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

Now as the world felt still half empty,
the day had come when I reached twenty:
those at Lützen slain encouraged me to win...
yet my loving elders would never see
their girl make it to University...
and she knew decay, one day, would dwell beneath her skin...
Yet, as I stood upon that stage,
I was full of joy, bereft of rage:
they all would listen to me as one...
a lot of Sandra in the sun!
And, in that golden afternoon,
in the youthful, long-lived sun of June,
I saw everyone entranced, in tune,
the day... my old self died.

I whispered, singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

I met a lady who'd inspire
me to control this inward fire...
who, throughout five years, encouraged me...
And, for a lustrum, I found my niche
and life was no longer that pastiche...
the fruit of my harvest is this Translation degree!
I have hurt and healed, many times I've screamed,
and by night and day frequently I've dreamed...
Now all of those good friends have scattered,
and I pick up the pieces that shattered...
And from Pushkin I've learned, as I thrived,
that "THE GOOD DIE ERE THEY REACH FORTY-FIVE,
FOR MIDLIFE AIN'T WORTH STAYING ALIVE"
the day... Youth, Lensky, died.

And I stopped singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days are someday waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die..."