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On the morning of November 18th, my birthday, I went to do a usual check on my much beloved but pain in the glutes Mitsubishi Galant white, which was parked on the outside the 9 feet wall separating our apartment from the dead-end alley. The air was wet from the evening chill, and my bare chest screamed for mercy from the bludgeoning of the early morning wind. My beloved pain in the glutes warranted a usual checkup so I pressed on. It had been laying in the perceived safe bed of the alley comatose due to the lack of a life saving energy from a defective battery, which was not about to be remedied since payday seemed to be like judgment day. A day that comes with an eternal wait. Nevertheless I stopped approximately 15 feet in the distance and noticed something odd. “Oh Lord!” I silently spoke. “Is this the day? How will I survive going to prison because it seems a no good Negro decided to violate the innocence of my Galant, and I’m going to find him, whoop him so bad that every Galant he sees on the streets of St Lucia he will run for cover”. I inched closer and the notion became a reality that no amount of psychological babble could prepare you for. My Galant was in fact burglarized. My utter disbelief caused me to stand frozen in the shadow of the rising sun, with a want of caressing her just to assure her that “every little thing gonna be alright’, trying to hide my broken faith in our justice system and the agonizing wait for payday. I perused her body, trying to assess how it happened and what she was deprived of, Lo and behold the good for nothing dead battery was their prized treasure. If I say it did not lift my spirits a little I’d be lying cause they got by not getting anything of worth.
November 19th I was still lamenting over the sight of my beloved Galant, desecrated, and exposed in the unforgiving back alleys of “Grave Yard” Castries. I spoke to the insurance company earlier as they told me to get a police report in order to that I may be entitle to any reimbursement s. It was approximately 9pm. An hour earlier I left the C.I.D (Criminal Investigation Department) with the most awful taste in my mouth, from the lack of enthusiasm the police officers had and the lack of sympathy for Galant. I sat in the couch hoping that television could help ease my sorrow not knowing that my sorrow was about to reach an unimaginable abyss. I received a phone call, something terrible had happened to my father. The fact that my wife Francine was unwilling to say what happened heightened my anxiety. My Bro in law randy was already en-route to take me to our childhood home where he lived looking after my 62 recluse. The car stopped and I ran to the house to find my twin brother’s wife crying. What I saw next would nullify the effects of my previous loss.
My father’s cadaver hanged from the inner threshold of his infamous bachelor pad which separates his “studio” type sitting area with his bedroom and bathroom. He regrettably paid an exorbitant about of money to build it and yet the 10 feet by 20 feet structure was never completed. Wasting his resources to a contractor who had double crossed him years before. What a price he’d pay for forgiveness. Nonetheless, on November 19th 2014 his present turmoil was too burdensome for him. He and his children would pay the deadly price. In some way, a part of all of us who bore the sight and saw the images of him in the threshold of life and death, experienced death. As a new life of questions sprung forth in the midst of the raging emotions. Questions were left unanswered by his five-page suicide note which protruded from the pocket of his favorite blue robe he so purposely chose to wear. Always had a queer sense of humor. Should I sympathize with him? Should I try to kill him postmortem for agreeing with his mind to do such a thing? Was there really no other way out of his “situation”? What did he want his kids to know about his state of mind? I wept for the first time in my adult life primarily because the hope of having this robust relationship, where my father teaches me how to do something, anything in relation to building my character and learning to be a man, would be eternally lost with his final breath. This marked the beginning of my journey to understand life and ultimately its marriage to death.
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Source by Robert Rene