The Black Book
I'd searched through the jungles of Thailand and
scuba-dived along the Mariana Trench all for this beautiful,
little black book.
Standing above your dead grave, I recited the
incantation line by line, word by word until the sky
moaned, darkened and the ground shook. And the rain started: pathetic fallacy
is the best foreshadower.
Your dry, dead hand broke through the crust
of that heavy earth, followed by your arm and your face finally
appeared; not as I remembered it but still beautiful and
enough to make me cry, to fall to my weak knees. You
stood before me, naked and dirty. You just stood.
I brought you home, held your paternal flesh
as we walked through the prairies of our old house.
You were silent.
Introducing you to my new family, new
friends was a risk
I gladly took. They thought me mad, insane; I
thought as much.
It took me years of holidaying with you, Christmases, relived
old memories to realise that you had not
said a word since that rainy day. For the first time,
I stood before you and looked into your eyes. They were
cold, dead, absent, hollow, lifeless, echoing a life already spent;
didn't recognise me at all.
I woke you from the dead, snatched you
from paradise and robed you of
your final resting place. So I drove you to your empty grave and
struck your head with a rock, folded you into
the ground. Deja vu.
Father, only then did I remember that I buried you years ago.