There are times, most of the time, I wrestle with my conscious mind. I hold myself from looking at the polaroid photo trussed up against the fluorescent lights and a highly-polished rectangular mirror. I knowingly look away from the picture of a noble sage. The wise man. My man. The man with a warm Caribbean visage sheltering an endearing smile, weather-beaten eyes and a summer-kissed skin. His smile disguises life’s incomprehensible grimness, and his eyes seemingly but not definitely pine for freedom.
Was he ever free? I often wonder. A mystery I would learn if I burrow deeper into the nooks of my childhood. I possess no courage, nor do I have the heart to resuscitate and summon soul-searing memories. Drinking from the chalice of time would resurrect the nostalgic recollections which I buried deep in the alcoves of mind.
The Spring evening with solemn death knell and abundant phone calls left a bitter taste at the back of my throat. The taste of loss. The feeling of death. It lingered for months. His malady was a prescient warning, something I overlooked, wanted to ignore and willingly tried to forget. I wish there were an antidote to beckon the departed soul- a spirit serving as a conduit to an esoteric dimension. But I heard we cannot meddle with the mysteries of the universe. Some things are just left to pass. Left to be. Left alone. Just like the polaroid photo in my room.