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.
The Writing Corner carribean death father life love man mystery photo Photo polaroid poem poetic poetry writing