The black boxIt was sometime in April on a bright sunny afternoon, sun held high in the sky. It was a dull and lethargic day for others but the busiest day for me and my family. My house was crowded with my relatives and neighbours. They were continuously moving to and fro, busy making the arrangements ensuring everything was on decided time and in an apt manner.In the other room was present my mother Amy, my sister Agnes and my brother William discussing how things will move on that day and the following few days. I was moving about in every room to see people, some on their heels doing things while others simply sitting on the couch and giving their expert comments on the arrangements being made. Some said the ceremony should be conducted at noon, some said it should be executed with dignity. Different minds, different headwork. A crash of thunder was heard downstairs. Uncle Sam, William and a few people rushed towards the doorway in order to receive the parcel carefully and here comes a big black coloured wooden box shining as bright as black pearl. The box was well cushioned from inside with cotton and white satin cloth. On the cover of that box was a white coloured cross made of fine silk cloth. Yes it was a coffin and the gentleman who was to be rested in it was indeed my father Mr. Thomas Jones. He was a professor of history and a man of good stature. He was 45 years of age and was famed for his power to please everyone whom he met. No head went unturn when he walked down the street. He was well acknowledged for his wit and wisdom.Following the crash of thunder I heard the distant wail of sirens. It was in an ambulance that my father was traveling saying nothing, making no sound. He was taken out carefully and kept at the instructed place.At last the time of the funeral march arrived. Everyone on the funeral was dressed in black. My father was nailed in the coffin from two sides (reason being it can be reopened to view him again) as my mother and Agnes were crying bitterly. It seemed that the sky was ultra blue. I was standing and staring at my mother’s face unaware of the grim reality that my father will never come back. I felt something unusual. I still remember the pain and grief on my mother’s face. Her hands were blue with cold. Her eyes had lost the glitter that used to come when she used to see my father. We sat in a gloomy silence and prayed to the lord that may his soul rest in peace.At last the least awaited moment came. The coffin bearers were ready to march to a cemetery near a church. I was in front of the whole procession holding a metallic cross in my hands and walking towards the graveyard. At the graveyard many came to pay their last respects to my father. His oldest friend paid tribute to his life and work. All the religious ceremonies were over. My father was all over scented as he rested comfortably. My mother who bore herself with dignity throughout the event went near to her betrothed to pay her last respect. My father’s face looked as if he was telling my mother that he will never darken the door again. Father’s coffin was sealed and buried. On the epitaph it was written Mr. Thomas Jones (1960 – 1999). Floral tributes were paid. Candles were lit all around. After sometime all went to their respective homes. All was over. Everything slowed in stillness.I with my mom went home to attend the guests. The kitchen remained closed for three days as a mark of respect. Mother and Agnes used to cry caring not of dusk or dawn while I used to play marbles with my friends unaware of my responsibilities that were to come upon my shoulders in near future. The metamorphosis had already begun but it took time for me to know and feel the changes.As I was 10 yrs of age I knew not what death meant. What I figured out was that god really needed him that’s why he could not stay. My father was chosen for his garden.