I never could really fully grasped what uncle means by " death is piece". It doesn't make sense how something which is at the moment unknown to every living creature. How can a living person render themselves worthless enough to find more comfort in the chance of being in no exist anymore. Is life really such a horrifying experience that death is more bearable. How could he have survived so many years with nothing but sorrow in his grasp.
I guess the human body which I spent so many years growing in front off was nothing but an illusion. Life as I knew it wasn't the real truth. Uncle never really experienced life as I thought he did, the hero which I had always feared was nothing but my own mind playing games with me. Why would people make life seem so meaningful, why make it something which it isn't ?, what's the reason for making life into a simulation which they know would be broken at the end of the day. It doesn't sit well with me that I only know of lies, what I would have vouched for before is nothing but a lie.
Why turn a grave into a garden?.....
Why give faults hope?..... why cause an exceptional amount of pain for temporary amusement.
Why toy with emotions?..... what reason is there for any person to be so inconsiderate towards the child which has to face the truth about what they once believed to be reality, when in fact it isn't?
Why inflict so much pain?, " Why?" I have asked myself this question a million times, but still no answer seems to present itself.
As I stood there looking at mother on her bed, a little drenched from the water Beatrice had sprinkled on her, her hair never looked any more beautiful than today. She couldn't control the speed at which her tears came gushing out. She could neither talk nor look at anyone straight, her speech was impaired, she just stared at the floor for a reasonable amount of time before looking straight at me, she stared into my eyes and said, " we have work to do people, lets move shall we". It baffled me how she was able to change her mood from being sobby and pathetic to becoming the usual bossy woman she had always portrayed herself to be.
As I watched mother get herself up from a corner, as I watched get herself free from the pain she kept inside, I smiled. I couldn't believe the luck I had to have been birthed by this exceptional woman. The woman who could make herself use pain as fuel to better everyone in the family. She deserved so much better than having a son like me, she deserved a strong, hardworking boy who would help her through the pain of loosing her brother, but instead she got me. And at the end of the day I was the person who needed more comfort than her, Yet I was still proud to be a huge part of her life.
We firstly needed to get the
house to its best shape. Spring cleaning would apparently lighten up the mood in the house and everyone could bond with each other before the funeral arrived.
Every person had a particular chore assigned to them, I in particular was assigned to gather uncles stuff, cleaning his room to be precise. As we scattered to our own single chores, I started to go up the stairs wondering what I had to be a witness off in a dead mans room, how he preferred things to be kept before he kicked the bucket. Uncle had never been a man who cared much about cleanliness, in fact he was somewhat dirty.
As the door opened with those little deadly cracks as I opened it wider, I took a few steps into the room. A very dark room it was, even though the place was left alone no longer than twenty hours, it looked as though it had been abandoned a very long time ago. His favorite black leather jacket was on the bed, on the left, down corner of the bed, 'his favorite spot'. It was unusually folded as uncle was always somewhat very bad with laundry thus his folding skills were even worse.
I simply sat on the bed, thinking about the nights I had spent with uncle and aunt in this room when I couldn't sleep. For some time I forgot that I wouldn't be able to share those moments with him anymore, it was very refreshing to think about all the special moments I had spent with him, how important he made me feel each time I was near him. Dream land felt so real that I called out his name in haste, " Uncle Paul", I said. A second after uttering his name I came to realization of the fact that he was gone.
It disheartens me to look at his belongings and dream of him waking up and telling us that it was all a dream. It kills to look at the door wishing that he could come in at any second to be able to hug me and tell me that everything is going to work out at the end. But then knowing that it wont happen leave me with the lingering question of when this pain would stop, the time that I do not have to experience this pain in such lengths anymore.
I took the jacket off his bed and hugged it as long as I could his smell was still there. It was as if I had received the hug from him exactly. When I took it away from me a key fell off the jacket. It was a very tiny, wooden key, with little golden sprites on it. It fell off so swiftly that I couldn't recognize it was a key at first. It fell to the ground and rolled off until it was out of site and under the bed. I looked for it as hard as I could until I had finally decided to look under the bed but when I peeped there I found a chest instead.
A beautiful object with three red pebbles on it, a sprinkle of slightly brownish color on the side. It was truly a work of art, a little more of mothers taste though, which is what made me question its current location. Why would something that so tacky be in uncles room, he was more of a modern person than my mother. But there it was right under his bed. As noisy as I am, of course I was trying to open the chest up. But of course it was locked, there was a small cute hole big enough for a key to fit in perfectly. " the key of course", were my exact words.