This is a classic case of a bittersweet weekend for me.
It was on course to being doubly sweet with two back-to-back family wedding celebrations, one yesterday and the other today.
Yesterday it was my birthday son Damani tying the knot, while my recently-wed Miami-based niece Jamila has returned home for a hometown renewal of her vows this afternoon.
And I was ready. Suits back from the dry cleaners looking and smelling like new. Shoes polished to the point where I could pick my teeth in the reflection. Hair cut and blocked like a young boy. Car spotlessly clean despite the intermittent showers.
In addition, the appetite sharp-sharp after overnight cancelling my Saturday standing order with Maria for pudding and souse in the morning and, in the afternoon, a heavy cou cou swimming in a spicy, steamed snapper sauce with a slice of sweet potato on the side.
Also off the menu was my home-cooked Sunday lunch which would have been topped today by succulent, baked chops of the sweetest meat known to man since evolving from creation – pork.
I was as ready as ready could be with my system fully prepped for these two days of non-stop eating until I would probably need to be rolled liked a barrel in order to help digestion; and of sipping responsibly but with a designated driver on standby just in case things got out of hand.
But then the sweet slashed the bitter like a cutlass through a cane stalk when my first message yesterday came in the form of a question. Did I hear the news? What news? That Elvis had died. Which Elvis?
It turned out to be Elvis Reifer, who had not only been a close friend but also happened to be the husband of one of my best friends, Carol Roberts. Yes, Carol Roberts.
That can’t be true, I thought. Somebody was pulling my legs. So I called Carol expecting to hear her usual laughter dismissing yet another rumour. But when the ringing stopped, in her barely audible voice was no laughter, just a flood of hurt, pain, anguish, despair, distress, agony and torment gushing through the line.
What’s most significant about my relationship with Elvis is the fact that we had just been casual friends until a few years ago when I was ready to build my home. A mutual friend recommended that I get him to design it and I was so impressed with what he came back with that I ended up getting him to build it as well.
So not only am I recalling images of Elvis in my mind but I am seeing him in every beam, wall, window, door, floor, verandah, step, room, roof, gutter, tile, fixture and everything else that he created to surround my family and me with comfort.
But life must go on. So late yesterday I took leave of the bitter and enjoyed a sweet evening with Damani and the families, even firing a special one in memory of Elvis. This evening I will do the same at Jamila’s celebration.
In the meantime, be strong Carol. Every corner of Barbados is support for you.
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