There was a time when his aunt had had mercy on him and had come into
his life despite the inauspicious marriage that her sister had made. It
almost seemed like a dream. Hadn't she first enrolled him in a Bible
School class? Within that class so long ago, from a lost being of
himself, had he not taken a paper image of Christ and varnished it onto
a piece of wood? Then his aunt let him dabble in education and gain
the full thirst on the new taste buds. Neurological responses burgeoned
and bifurcated within him. Now this wooden, shiny-faced Christ or the
ashes of it were somewhere in a colossal garbage heap with so much
Kumpee had coerced them to throw away or sell "to have as savings."
That image of Christ or the conceptualization of it in his head had not
spared either himself or it from the trash heap. He was, nonetheless,
fond of it. Strangely, Bible school for him had been the initial stage
of his education at the temple school. He wished that he had that
plaque to keep forever. If he were to have that plaque now it might be
precious proof that a young scholar had actually lived.
This part of him was undeniably gone.
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