"FROM ROCKS TO PEARLS"- Paul Phillips 

A novelist like a doctor must stand alone, having his words published is like operating on a patient that  puts his talent on display and there is no way he can hide his medical talent from his colleagues. The truth is revealed and sometimes, the results can be devastating. I do not intend to write about myself, my family, my personal love or lies that sometimes come from love, but what I am about to write will unveiled.

Sometimes, we as humans failed in life and we feel that the world has come to a halt, but we must realise that we still have breath given to us freely from above. We may try hard as humans to atone a situation or problem that we are not able to correct, but again as humans, we must have conviction and trust that everything will be all right.

As a child trying to comprehend the world and live the secular desires, I would hear my mother shouting to my sister and sometimes my brother, “Stay an burn or cut an run.” Until I became an adult, I finally understood the relationship the expression my mother used. This had upon life and the impact it will become later.        

“Hello madam, where are you coming from at this time of the night?” questioned Emma, curling her brown wavy hair in the mirror that reflected a parallel direction.

“Went to see Ron,” I replied, stripping my working clothes off my tired frame.

“Yeah, right, you probably had a blind date and keeping it a secret,” said Emma, throwing herself on her bed, turning the bed lamp off.

“What do you mean?”

“End of conversation,” she further mention “So what did the doctor say about Ron?”

“He is progressing, but slowly. And the good news is that, they are hoping he will walk properly again.”

“I do hope he will. Girl I am tired, I am going to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams, Emm.”

That night I was tired from working double shift at the hospital. More so, I visited Ron instantaneously after work.

“Pandora, wake up,” Emma gleefully said.

“It is very early, girl,” I replied, rubbing my head against the pillow and shunning her with the bed covering.

“Girl, I am going to work. Your breakfast is in the microwave.”

“What have you made?” I asked, throwing my hair over my shoulders.

“You’re favourite! Poached eggs with tuna and bread,” explained Emma, exiting the door merrily.

          It was a very beautiful day. The angle where our apartment was situated I could clearly see the yellow buttercups in the gardens, beneath towering tambrine trees enjoying the ambiance. I went to the hospital that day, only to discover that the patient, to whom I was assigned, died at some stage in the night. She was so modest, innocent and beautiful. She was captivating to the eyes! Everyday she would give me a freshly picked flower of an unusual smell and colour, and then she would ask me, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

            I would reply to her, “this is the most beautiful flower anyone has ever given me.” She would grin then look through the window watching the indomitable sky.

          I took the day off and visited my brother. He was lying on the bed reading-or just looking at a Reader’s Digest magazine.

          “Hi Ron, I have brought you those markers you wanted.”

          “Do you want to see, what I have painted with the painting set you gave me,” he simply said.

          “What’s that?” I asked, in astonishment. What possibly could he paint? I incredulously, thought, awaiting him to reveal the work of art to me.

          As my eyes connected with his portrait, I felt as though a truck had instantly slammed into my face, decapitating me. He painted us swinging on a swinger holding hands, while our parents were pushing from behind. I regretted giving him that painting set; it reconstructed the memories of the haunting past.

          “So mama or papa coming today?” he asked immaturely.

          “No, Ron,” I answered, with guilt. “They can’t make it today.”

          “Why?”

          “They have to work,” I act in response, resuscitating my saliva.

          “You know I am planning to draw another picture. You will see it next time you come and see me, right sister.”

          “That’s nice Ron. So what is it?”

          “When you come, you will see,” he replied, walking towards me, with his curved back.

          “You are the best painter, Ron. Mama especially, would be proud of you,” I comforted him, as he squeezed me tightly in his shrunken arms. 

          That day I stormed through the rain with rage, as though nature had done me something wrong. Droplets of water were diminishing from the ends of my hair. The cigarette I was smoking was so soaked, but I was still demanding to receive some comfort by pulling on it between my shaky lips.