Man In a Suitcase

MAN IN A SUITCASE Used to joke how Gregory Peck was my father But never knew why I was called Sydney. Or why Australia’s city was named after me - And a dozen other cities around the world farther. My dad surely was where mum’s love-treasure was spent, But died before I was born and before they could marry. Her family hated this guy but she was tough, didn’t worry, And named me after the man for whom she was meant. She never discussed her feelings buried, Showed no photos, never talked about him to me. Broken hearted I guess. Who wouldn’t be? I never knew the man she would have married. I didn’t really cotton to the name I had. I preferred Alan or Steve or maybe Vincent And a dozen other names meant for a gent, Regardless of who may have been my dad. I also disliked the name for its ambiguity, this name Sydney - Sort of amphibious. A name in American movies - for women, It could swim across the ocean and in British movies - for men, (Always small-time crooks who were chirpy and cockney). No, I never liked the name. It wasn’t worth a jitney To me; and I used other nicknames for many a year, It was only used in mockery for it was relatively rare. Even today, “Syd” is ok; but please, never call me “Sydney” But I found a dusty old suitcase and lifted its lid After she passed away. Her life’s treasurechest, And out rolled some gold, photo of old soldier dressed In uniform: he looked like me: the name on back was Syd. That moment - Damascus Road - change of heart. Now, proud to have it, say it, hear it. Nicknames I forbid. I like it especially when my loving wife says “Syd” Now with this name I’d never part. ……………………………………………………………………………………………. Written for Linda-Marie’s contest WHAT’S IN A NAME?