It was then, amidst the song that induced a memory I had buried deep within the dark abyss of my mind. A place where the pains of your legacy continues pressing on strings with deft, calloused fingers on a carpeted floor stretched taut, the coarse, fibrous yarns spun of dashed ideals and the uncertainty of eighteen. The cold air pushes through ceiling slats and the pinkish-violet remains of the sun grasped the Philadelphia sky--only it wasn't Philly painted across the windowed canvas. In its stead, a skyline built in four years. A tragedy scrawled in pamphlets, left & leaving. A story I have yet to reconcile of a love never realized. The boy whose heart broke under the hot lamps of a life long dream that escaped his memory, never to return. That first cigarette, pressed clumsily upon wind-chapped lips, a falsely perceived adulthood. A stolen kiss, masked in the fading licorice haze of adolescence. Those quiet reflections, where I realized it was against the will of the Lord most high for us to live as individuals...only then, the seeds of poverty taking root in the depths of my very being.
The final moments of dusk shook me from reverie as the pinkish hues stretched upward, grasping the heavens in fear that the sun may never rise again. This is me now, years later and reminded that autumn exists in the city. The overwhelming stench of beautiful decay. The things I thought I'd never miss.
Your funeral is magnificent, decorated in shades of mustard and olive. A procession of skeletal figures coming forth to pay their last respects. And you, that crooked smirk gracing a pert mouth. A snide retort prepared should the opportunity present itself. Your sallow skin, yellow-green in the corridor lighting, stretches over delicate bones. Though all the parts are there, no sound exists. The oxygen is removed from our lungs and we are momentarily frozen in time and place. There is overwhelming stillness in this peace only granted by Him. And I stay in that space until my lungs burn and my vision begins to fade forcing me to breathe, gasping and heaving.
The figures glare. Unnerving. They read my every movement. My mouth. My hands. The rise and fall of my chest. Glorious, this ghastly procession. A parade of toothy smiles, pasted on unwelcome, yet familiar faces. Only then, I press my palm on the papery-thin flesh of your pallid cheek, A final attempt. A futile hope in resurrecting the dry pathways of your veins. Oh, soul-less creature. Oh, spirited son.
"The dream is dead, the moment passed," His lower lip trembled slightly, betraying his confident tone. "And we are nothing. Born of the earth, we will return to our Father."
