back to short works
 
Text Box: They came from far and wide each beckoned to this place by a registered letter asking them to attend his funeral. The funeral was to be held at St. Patrick’s Cathedral Church in Frederiksted, St.Croix. Each letter was written as a poem asking them to attend and eulogize him as he was, and not how they wished him to be. It was seemingly appropriate that the day was overcast, and thunderstorms were predicted by the weather gods for the rest of the day. Raindrops the size of golf balls came pelting from the heavens bouncing off the tops of the umbrellas and splattering to the wet ground. Pools of water formed at the feet of all the mourners still outside and it was like looking into a mirror. An image of their inner soul reflected in the water for a few seconds, and then disappeared leaving them wondering if the image they saw had been real. A few of them looked around quickly to see if anyone had seen the blackness in their souls, but the image was only for their eyes. The sun would struggle for the rest of the day to break through the clouds, but the effort would prove to be too much, and she would take the rest of the day off to watch the mourners shed their tears in remembrance. Michelle, Amy and Fylicia sheltered by their umbrellas exchanged stories of how the deceased had affected their lives, and with each story told, it made them feel as if he was nearby watching them; having a good laugh watching them cry their eyes out over his death. Father Conrad perched at the top of the church stairs waved them into the church. The moment they had been dreading was upon them: to walk past his casket couldn’t be avoided any longer. They could no longer pretend that maybe it had all been a bad dream, and any minute now they would all wake up and he would still be alive. He was dead and no amount of wishful hoping could bring him back. Michelle gazed across the street into the projects where he once lived, as if hoping to feel his spirit still lost somewhere in the courtyards. He had attended this church as a young boy growing up right across the street in Lagoon Projects. Back then, it wasn’t really a project because the residents took pride in living there, but now it was rampant with an element that pervaded every segment of our society. He had played marbles and stickball in the courtyards with his friends Nigel Simon and Cane Toussaint who were now hurriedly walking up the stairs to take their seats in the church. Evening would often find the three friends engaged in a fierce game of marbles, their knees were often times cut or dirty from kneeling in the dirt for long stretches of time. Their friendship endured all through high school and into adulthood, but one of them would lose contact because that’s just how life is sometimes. Pacts made by young boys to be friends until death get forgotten when other responsibilities and miscommunications take on a life of their own. And before you know it, life has sped by and a funeral is being attended and you wonder when did you get to this point? Everyone that was invited made the trip except for one person. A selected few would try to capture the essence of him for the others who were always on the peripheral and never quite sure of what was going on inside his mind. His thoughts were always like a highly guarded secret, and the few who were allowed into his circle of trust never betrayed his confidence. Seemingly for all his words, the ease he was able to create pictures and evoke emotions of melancholy and joy, there always seemed to be a loneliness cloaking his being. He wore it like an invisible shield keeping the world at arm’s length. Father Conrad watched in quiet bemusement as the mourners took their seats as the strains of Amazing Grace echoed through the old church he had called home for the past forty years. Every funeral had its own mood: some were sad but happy in celebrating the life of the deceased; some were indifferent as mourners would anxiously check their cell phones looking for any excuse to step outside. But this one, he couldn’t quite yet put his finger on it. When Father Conrad received his registered letter and Text Box: mourners of meeting the young man the first day of English in 10th grade, and the air of cockiness surrounding him was so thick that often times it was difficult to discern his real personality. As the school year progressed, the young man displayed a gift for the written word far beyond his sixteen years. And while his classmates struggled to understand the works of T.S. Elliot, Kurt Vonnegut and Dylan Thomas, the young man took to it as if he was born to be a writer. One piece of literature, “Catcher in the Rye” resonated with him, and he took to it like a priest to the Bible. Father Conrad smiled at that reference by the old English teacher. The main character in this classic work, Holden Caulfield was tormented by the indifference and apathy he observed in everyday life, and the English teacher’s former student related to this book more than anything he had ever read. The deceased wasn’t always the nicest guy, and could be downright mean and sarcastic the English teacher reflected as an incident occurred to him, but he continued on. It was all just a façade that the wily old English teacher would eventually see through, and they would become fast friends. He was able to reach the young man in a way no one had been able to before. Through the years, he would often receive a phone call from the young man, and they would talk for hours. He would never truly know how these conversations shined some light into the darkness the young man often visited. If only he was able to live in the moment and not obsess about past mistakes and events beyond his control the English teacher lamented to the mourners. Walking back to his seat, the English teacher crossed paths with the son of his former student who was on his way to the podium. They shared a history that the son would never know. The old English teacher carried intimate knowledge of the circumstances surrounding the son’s birth. He smiled to himself happy that the initial discussion between him and his former student never came to fruition. The burden of life decisions made or unmade have a way of coming back to haunt us when least expected. It must be God’s way of letting us know there will be reparations owed for the sins of the soul. His son spoke eloquently of a father who was often times hard on him only because his behavior warranted it. He was a difficult man to know the son said. “In the years I lived with him as a boy, our times together were always filled with me needing to be disciplined for one thing or another. But even at my worst, I knew he loved me and was trying to save me from myself.” A rueful smile crossed the son’s face, and just as quickly tears welled in his eyes. “The old man couldn’t see how hard I tried to be good for him, and no matter what I did it came out wrong. He would give me that look, and it was worse than all the beatings combined.” The son stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts and the mourners waited with him. “The old man always used to tell me that he wasn’t here to be my friend, only my parent and he hoped that one day I would understand the lessons he was trying to pass to me that his mom had instilled in him, and one day in the future we could be friends-buddies just hanging out. With a child of my own now, I wish he could know that I finally understand. Everything he said to me somehow lingered even when he thought I wasn’t listening, and its his voice I hear now as I tell my son to be a leader not a follower, that no one owes you anything as much as you owe yourself… to just try and do your best.” The son stopped again and bent his head into his palms as his sobs echoed through the microphone and the church. His cries were the cries of a son wishing to have had more time with his father, wishing that his father could somehow know that he had heard him all these years and he would make him proud. He now had a son of his own, and his father’s voice spoke through him as he struggled to raise his son the right way. Everything he had been taught was now being passed on to his son. The old man would be proud that the teachings his mother had passed down to him were now being lived by his son. Father Conrad began to see a clearer picture of the deceased through Text Box: the words of those who had come in contact with him during his life. He saw a man who by his own design remained an enigma, and only allowed others brief glimpses into his true self. What a beautiful gift it would have been, Father Conrad thought if he had been able to put the façade away, and live in the light. A spirit that’s true can only serve to make the people around you better and enhance their lives. A few hymnals were sung, and the voices of the mourners echoed through the old church joining the cries of all the mourners who had mourned for their loved ones through the years. They found solace in that moment when their songs of prayer found the ear of God. Father Conrad felt the peace being experienced by all the mourners, and made the sign of the cross acknowledging God’s presence. Just as Father Conrad was about to end the service and lead the congregation to the burial ground, the last speaker stood up and strode to the front of the church. Hers was a face that few of them knew, but she wore the look of the haunted so they quickly surmised who she was as she began to speak. Her shoulder length dreadlocks were peppered with gray now, and her lips were the color of dark cinnamon burnt by too many years of chain smoking cigarettes and weed. If Jah didn’t want us to smoke weed then he wouldn’t have made it she always said when they were married. She spoke of regret and how the naiveté of a young girl and pride ruined her life. Her passion infused the church and the gatherers hung on her every word. They had all at some point in their lives made mistakes that even though buried were sometimes just a thought away. Her pain was universal and in its rawness, each mourner saw himself and understood what it felt like to make a life altering mistake and never receive forgiveness for it. The wronged party hadn’t forgiven them, and worse, they hadn’t forgiven themselves. “Forgiveness is the greatest gift we can give ourselves, and he was compassionate when he should’ve been angry, understanding when he should’ve been hurt, loving when he could’ve hated me,” she disclosed to the throngs of mourners intently listening. Knowing someone could’ve chosen to hate you, but instead choose to love you and allow you back into their lives are more than anyone should expect or deserve. The guilt from so many years ago still played on - everything we do is haunted by that one wrong choice.” There was something still defiant in her tone or maybe it was just the accent, and it was obvious why he had been drawn to her in life. She tried valiantly to fight back the tears as a lifetime of memories came rushing back at her, and in that moment she was twenty-two again, and regret was a feeling that was a few years away. Father Conrad approached her and embraced her spirit in an attempt to give her solace. He whispered something in her ear that the deceased had asked him to tell her. The words reached her heart, and a hint of a smile appeared around the corners of her mouth. She went back to her seat, and Amazing Grace was sung again. The right words at the right time can be wings giving you the ability to fly, to hope and believe again. His two childhood friends, the old English teacher and his son carried the casket down the stairs and into the hearse. The rain had slowed down to a steady drizzle, and the rest of the mourners followed behind on their way to the cemetery. They were all lost in their own memories of him and what he had meant in their lives. A few hundred people having thoughts of you at the same time can make even the dead smile in the beyond as they’re being remembered. We have a lifetime to tell the ones we love how we feel about them, but it takes death for people to realize that our time here is precious, Father Conrad thought to himself as he led the procession to the cemetery. In an hour, he would be six feet under buried next to his father, and maybe now his soul will be at peace. That was Father Conrad’s last prayer as he entered the cemetery to lay him to rest. Dean Jéan-Pierre 4:29pm 10-08-05
Text Box: instructions for the funeral he didn’t find the request odd at all. He was asked that during his sermon to implore the chosen speakers to deliver an honest assessment of the deceased’s life. The departed wanted his death to be an honest celebration of his life he had said, and not embellishments of what his friends and family had made up. In death, he had written, “Everyone is always seemingly remembered when they’re eulogized with reverence and piety, when just the week before they were engaged in unspeakable evil.” Father Conrad nodded his head in agreement at that last observation. There were three photos included in the letter, one as a baby, then as nine year old boy and one taken a few months ago. Father Conrad sat back in his chair and pushed his glasses up against his nose and stared at the nine year old boy in the picture. It was a picture taken in his church over thirty years ago of a little boy looking into a casket and touching the face of the man in the casket. Father Conrad had presided over that funeral and it was his first funeral as a Pastor. The day came flooding back to him, and he could still hear the screams of the young mother and her youngest son. But this son in the picture had stood off to the side observing his crying mother and younger brother without shedding a tear. The grief of losing his father was alive in his face, but the tears would have to come another day. Father Conrad felt as a parent would feel as he got ready to send the son to meet his father in the great beyond. What a strange life this is Father Conrad thought to himself as he stood before the congregation; ready to deliver words he hoped would bring comfort to the mourners who had gathered. His mother and brother were the first to speak, and they spoke in tandem completing each other’s sentences. They spoke of wanting to be closer to him, but always under the distinct impression that he was too busy or couldn’t be bothered. A quiet murmur of recognition rippled through the mourners, and a few could be seen nodding their heads. They were a family of strangers, and only later on as grown men were the two brothers able to forge a friendship that had escaped them as boys. For reasons far too complicated for his mother to grasp, there had always been a divide between her and him even though he was the first born. He was always an odd child she thought to herself. And beyond the obligatory conversations, a quiet silence of resignation existed between them. “A mother should never bury her first born” she spoke in a whisper into the microphone. Life hadn’t been too kind to her, losing a husband and a son, but time had aged her gracefully Father Conrad observed as mother and son walked slowly back to their seats. Father Conrad unearthed another memory of that day he had long forgotten. Surprising how memories long forgotten left on a shelf to gather dust through the years gather new life after being stowed away for so long. A few days before the funeral, the mother and her two sons had visited Father Conrad for counsel. The younger son was quite animated, but the older one seemed somewhat disconnected from the entire event as if he didn’t belong there. Father Conrad had tried to engage him in conversation as they all left his office, but he remained mute. A few minutes later, he went running back to retrieve his mother’s pocketbook, and said to Father Conrad in a barely audible voice, “God must have been busy when my daddy was dying.” Before Father Conrad could even mouth a response, the young man was out the door and running down the stairs to his mother. A silver haired, thin white man walked quickly to the podium never breaking stride or making eye contact with anyone. His hands were empty and were visibly shaking as he held on to the podium to steady himself. Looking into the crowd, he thought he recognized a few faces of students he had taught English as children. But now, those once youthful faces with their entire lives ahead of them were almost as old and weary as his. He reminisced to the