There is a picture that sits in our house on top of a dusty, out of tune piano that no one plays. It is a picture of my father. In it, my father poses handsomely for the camera as he dons his olive green Army fatigues and characteristic cigarette in hand. Those who come to visit our house often stop to glance at his picture and comment on how handsome a soldier he was back then. I suppose that in their minds they can see him as a true and dutiful soldier ready to defend his country, always up at the crack of dawn to perform his duties, and ultimately a soldier to the last. Perhaps then it is true what they say about a single picture being able to evoke such vivid memories. But when I look at my father's picture I see a entirely different image altogether. The image I see is one that brings both hope and desperation, joy and sadness, love and lost, in short the emotion of grief.

It was the day after my father's death. A day that neither I nor anyone else in my family can scarcely forget. I remember it clearly because it was Easter Sunday. Only the week before I had gone out with my mother to the department store to purchase the annual Easter suit (which as any Black person who was raised in the South knows, is quite an event). It was a gold pin stripped suit that I am sure was on sale. And though I neither found it fascinating nor particularly attractive, nevertheless, it seemed to please my mother a great deal to dress me up like a doll and parade me in and out of the fitting rooms. How ironic it seems now that the same suit that was bought for an event that would celebrate The Resurrection and new life would ultimately be used for mourning.

That Sunday morning I stayed home from church. My mother and sister had decided to go on to church, for you see my mother is a person of great faith in the Lord, and not even the death of her husband of 33 1/2 years could shake her faith in Jesus. I, myself was a young Christian at the time and certainly didn't possess the strength and maturity of my mother and so decided to stay home and "continue" the grieving process. I say continue the process but to this day I'm not sure when it even started and if it ever did stop. Perhaps it was a couple of weeks earlier, right after my father had had back surgery. He had been bedridden for the past couple of days but naturally I assumed that he just needed rest after coming back from the hospital. That morning my mother drove me to school as always and when I asked how dad was doing she "accidentally" told me that they had discovered liver cancer and that it was spreading throughout his body like wildfire. She hadn't meant to tell me about the cancer part, only that there were "complications" (as those surgeons always like to put it). Nevertheless, from the moment the words hit my ears it was like the top that pops up on those sealed jars so that once the seal is broken no matter how hard you screw the top back on you'll never be able to get that airtight seal again. The deed was done and no matter what else my mother said from then on, one thing was clear, my father of 17 1/2 years was going to die.

That Sunday morning the house seemed unusually empty. I sat in the den staring at both the blank television screen and the empty couch where my father had breathed his last breath only the night before. I had never truly dealt with death before. Sure I had been to the funerals of friends and some distant family members of whom I had little more that a passing knowledge. But now I had to deal with death on more personal terms, for now I had seen for myself the vivid beauty that is life give way to the pale eerieness of death. Somewhere in the midst of our home's great emptiness that morning there sat I, Timothy Andre' Powell the youngest son of Amos Emit Powell, Jr., now deceased.

Somehow I made through that awful morning. I don't recall how, only staring at that empty couch where my father's fragile body had lain the night before. When my mom and oldest sister came back from church that afternoon I was still sitting in the den. We had a family tradition of eating the Sunday meals after church and so I instinctively headed for the kitchen. Along with my mother came a steady stream of "good ol church folks" bringing with them cakes and pies and hams and casseroles. I walked over to the kitchen counter and began to fix myself a plate of food. As I piled the food randomly onto my plate I began to think about the last time I had sat down to eat a meal with my father. It was maybe a week ago, or maybe two weeks ago. I couldn't tell for sure anymore. Much like the concoction that was now on my dinner plate everything in my life seemed seemed to run together.

After about an hour the mood seemed to change in that empty house. All around me sat family and friends and "good ol church folks" dining on our newly begotten memorial banquet and telling past stories about my father. Thinking back now to that time when our empty house was filled with mourner's food (for lack of a better way to describe it), it seems fitting that my story should have began here, for this is the time when the happiest memories are told. This is the time when pictures, like that one of my father on the piano, are not just looked at but cherished. This is the time when both family and friends alike can see my father as that dutiful soldier in the olive green fatigues. But for me that picture will always have a different meaning. No matter what else anyone tells me I will always see the same images, remember the same feelings and relive the same experience And just like that popped lid on the airtight jar, I will never be able to screw the lid all the way back on to my life again.