Pamela Patrick, a Sister, a Friend, a Mother, 1956-2023:
I couldn’t stop reading those lettering engraved on her grave as I stood motionless with a bouquet of flower firmly held in my hand and my gaze lowered on her beautiful picture. Quickly I wept from the lag of my heart. I was guilty of this sin. With trembling hands I dropped the flower and returned to the recess of my broken heart. Would I ever forgive myself for being unable to provide her medical bills?
Each time I dared to speak, I choked on my words and I ended up sobbing and wiping endless warm tears that burnt my cheeks. The death of my mother had opined in me that I was indeed an embodiment of poverty. I had only one option; provide the hospital bills and she would live for me yet I could. I had only come to agree with my fate in that if her bills were to be a thousand dollars I would have also disappointed her.
Just then he appeared by my side and interrupted my thought- father. He had wept so bitterly that his eyes were inflamed with redness. With the corner of my eyes I stole a glance at father and I could tell this man may never get over this trauma and my name may be on his death list. Things may never get rosy between us till the end of time.
Living outside in the cold for weeks now had made him older and gullible in looks; his neck had wrinkled more than his skinny chin.
The other day father had told me, “Since you can’t provide your mother’s medical bills could you please provide the five hundred dollars for our house rent.”
I wished the ten dollars per week I earned as a delivery boy could answer that question. My salary wasn’t just enough; it only catered for our feeding and at worse a less decent meal. I augmented for a decent meal by gate-crashing on parties and satisfying my hunger for now and the days ahead.
“Doctor said your name was the last word on her lips before she gave up the ghost,” father said coldly, still staring at her pictures, as though he was talking to the picture and not me. “She believed in a son that was worse than an infidel maybe she shouldn’t have wasted her verve to believe in a son that is full of nemesis and poverty. I adopted you thinking you were going to bring me fortune!” his voice was gradually growing in wrath.
I raised my gaze at him and struggled to fight back tears which I thought I was done with. I expected father not to blow hot at me or fall out with me.
He sniffed and wept like a kid before he gathered momentum and muttered, “You finally murder her. You killed her, you son of ill-luck and shame. If you hadn’t gone to jail she obviously would be alive today. From the first day I adopted you as my son, I have known nothing but poverty sorrow and pain. If no one had told you…” he said, flashed his thunderous stare at me and our gaze met, “Take it from me, you are cursed and fated to die in poverty…”
I yelled. I didn’t want to but I had to do it and I wished I wouldn’t bicker with father over my ill-luck sand poverty. I had to talk sense into him, “I am not cursed ! But if you think I am let me perish under this curse in peace..”
Pa!
That was a resounding slap.
“Idiot! Dope ass!” he cursed me and his eyes glowered and shot menacingly at me.
I grinned, lowered my gaze and brought my hands on my face, waiting for the stars in my eyes to disappear so I could see clearly.
“Did you just slap me, father?” I queried feeling print of his palm on my right chin and wondering how much crimson my face would be now.
“I will do that over again if you dare yell at me. Haven’t you wondered why a kid like you should be found wandering on the harsh streets of Rio Hondo? It is because you brought ill-luck, shame and poverty on your parents and because they couldn’t tolerate your ill fate they abandoned you on the streets. You are doomed!”
I yelled yet further, throwing caution to the wind and not giving a damn about his numerous slaps that were yet to daze me, “You know nothing about me. I am not ill-fated…”
He interposed me “Oh keep shut you are. Do you need a witch doctor to remind you that you are ill-fated? Take a look at yourself…”
I did; stared at myself from head to toes and saw nothing but a ragged, dusty, scaly-footed delivery boy who, managed to survive at the mercy of uncertainty
“Is this how a human being should look like, uh? Your wife divorced you, you are an ex convict, nobody wants you and your ill-luck around, and what about your dirty delivery job. I despise you, Brian. Could you please stop going by the surname Patrick. You don’t deserve it…”
“Fine!” I interrupted him, “I will stop going by the surname, Patrick. I will be fine with only Brian. All I know is that I am not ill-fated, neither am I cursed. I am just a victim of circumstances. As for my poverty, I am going to work hard until I become wealthy and affluent…”
Father chuckled nosily and clapped mockingly at me, “Your hard work will lead you nowhere because you are fated to be poor. You disgust me. I named you Brian. Only God knows the name your true parents gave you before abandoning you on the streets of Rio Hondo to die. I can’t wait to see your end because I know you can never finish strong. Fool!” he cursed me and walked away.
Already I had been all tears before now…