I must have been around 12 back then. Monday. I was supposed to go to school but Papa didn’t let me. “We’re going somewhere,” he said. He had a stern expression and an unnatural seriousness about him; and if it wasn’t for that, I would have complained. Unlike other children my age, I was precocious and I valued studying as much as a kid would with playing.
We left home around 5:30am. Only the distant crows of roosters and subtle sounds of people in their homes preparing for the day marred the silent air. No rowdy neighbors, no busy streets; our neighborhood held a certain sophistication that real estate subdivisions had. Cold air embraced the town despite the morning sun. Leaves swayed ever so slightly, letting dew slide down like beads of precious stones. The tinted window of the car filtered the sunrise but it still looked as immaculate as it should. Our speed changed and blurred the scene outside but it stayed frigid, like a golden coin tossed into heaven and stayed where it rightfully belonged. It felt like an anchor to reality, to the world, which—given my age—was incomprehensible to me.