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Description
It was one of the only remaining objects left from the scene of the suicide. When my father walked in front of the transit train back in early September, this was one of the only things found that was still in tact. They were one of his most favorite possessions, since he hated sunlight; it helped him see without any UV glares. After everything was said and done with the funeral, the funeral staff brought my mother and I into a room, where they handed us an air tight bag which contained a pack of cigarettes, his wedding ring, and his pair of sunglasses. My mom took the bag home, hoping to rid the house of all the items except his wedding ring; and so I snatched up the bent glasses and took them to my room.
They sit in a wooden box that has a prayer inside of it, etched into the warped trees. They're clean, to say the least; minus scratches that are forever embedded in the tinted lenses. They're cold to the touch, and I can't help but sit back in curiosity as I finger with them, taking note that the once smooth edges are now rigid and broken, and if I look hard enough, I can even see small pebbles that remain within the frame. The metal is bent, though not bad enough to where I couldn't wear them if I wanted to, but still, the frame is delicate. One lens is pushed back slightly, and it's loose when I touch it. It only adds to the fact that this one last standing and not fully destroyed piece of my father is delicate; almost as delicate as he was. The nose bridge too is bent, small cracks slowly growing from where the nails that screwed the lenses together seem to be smoother than the lens itself. The nose pad, which was once an alabaster white, is now an off white color, with dirt and what looks like dried blood, stuck within the crevasses where the metal and the plastic meet. I can't help but want to touch it; to know the truth of what it is that has discolored those pads, but I cannot reach them; nor do I think the truth would do me any good at this point in time. The other pad has gone missing, and all that is left is the metal holding to where it would have rested.
As I touch it gently, I can't help but get a look from my mother. She knows what this is, and is not too happy that I still have it. She offers a gentle yet scornful cough towards me, but I disregard her, allowing the cold metal frame to warm up in my sweating hands. The metal as well, seems to show signs of dirt or perhaps the dried up blood on its surface. The frame does not shine like it once did; it's dirty, and tarnished. On the top lens, there is a fingerprint that still remains. I wonder if it's my fathers fingerprint, or maybe it's the fingerprint of the police officer on scene when they found him. Again, as they are held, they seem to flex slightly, which proves that the frame is weak, and that the nails that hold in the lenses are weak as well, and they will probably give out soon. It's strange that they still seem to be functional; these glasses had to have gone through Hell and back before reaching their own resting place within my little wooden box. Even the lenses still have some dirt clinging to them, which should be wiped away, but it won't be, as I fold up the frame and place it back into its coffin. I can't help but feel the great wave of sadness as it passes through me.
I wonder why I even bothered taking school when his suicide was so close to my school date; it only makes me feel stronger and better that I still am going while he sits in the ground, and these broken, bent up glasses only seem to give me a reminder of what it is I'm proving him wrong of. A man that had always wanted me to be under his abusive control, I had broken free with my acceptance to college. His last attempts at keeping me from living my dream, have once again, failed. Though I can't help but stare at these broken, beat up sunglasses and wonder why, or how rather, that a man with so much life and so many things to live for, could do something like what he did. Yet here I am, describing the only thing that I can describe with the knowing that I could fulfill the task that was needed to be completed, while also allowing some truth to escape from my own pent up feelings. These glasses are truly something to marvel.

Description
It was one of the only remaining objects left from the scene of the suicide. When my father walked in front of the transit train back in early September, this was one of the only things found that was still in tact. They were one of his most favorite possessions, since he hated sunlight; it helped him see without any UV glares. After everything was said and done with the funeral, the funeral staff brought my mother and I into a room, where they handed us an air tight bag which contained a pack of cigarettes, his wedding ring, and his pair of sunglasses. My mom took the bag home, hoping to rid the house of all the items except his wedding ring; and so I snatched up the bent glasses and took them to my room.
They sit in a wooden box that has a prayer inside of it, etched into the warped trees. They're clean, to say the least; minus scratches that are forever embedded in the tinted lenses. They're cold to the touch, and I can't help but sit back in curiosity as I finger with them, taking note that the once smooth edges are now rigid and broken, and if I look hard enough, I can even see small pebbles that remain within the frame. The metal is bent, though not bad enough to where I couldn't wear them if I wanted to, but still, the frame is delicate. One lens is pushed back slightly, and it's loose when I touch it. It only adds to the fact that this one last standing and not fully destroyed piece of my father is delicate; almost as delicate as he was. The nose bridge too is bent, small cracks slowly growing from where the nails that screwed the lenses together seem to be smoother than the lens itself. The nose pad, which was once an alabaster white, is now an off white color, with dirt and what looks like dried blood, stuck within the crevasses where the metal and the plastic meet. I can't help but want to touch it; to know the truth of what it is that has discolored those pads, but I cannot reach them; nor do I think the truth would do me any good at this point in time. The other pad has gone missing, and all that is left is the metal holding to where it would have rested.
As I touch it gently, I can't help but get a look from my mother. She knows what this is, and is not too happy that I still have it. She offers a gentle yet scornful cough towards me, but I disregard her, allowing the cold metal frame to warm up in my sweating hands. The metal as well, seems to show signs of dirt or perhaps the dried up blood on its surface. The frame does not shine like it once did; it's dirty, and tarnished. On the top lens, there is a fingerprint that still remains. I wonder if it's my fathers fingerprint, or maybe it's the fingerprint of the police officer on scene when they found him. Again, as they are held, they seem to flex slightly, which proves that the frame is weak, and that the nails that hold in the lenses are weak as well, and they will probably give out soon. It's strange that they still seem to be functional; these glasses had to have gone through Hell and back before reaching their own resting place within my little wooden box. Even the lenses still have some dirt clinging to them, which should be wiped away, but it won't be, as I fold up the frame and place it back into its coffin. I can't help but feel the great wave of sadness as it passes through me.
I wonder why I even bothered taking school when his suicide was so close to my school date; it only makes me feel stronger and better that I still am going while he sits in the ground, and these broken, bent up glasses only seem to give me a reminder of what it is I'm proving him wrong of. A man that had always wanted me to be under his abusive control, I had broken free with my acceptance to college. His last attempts at keeping me from living my dream, have once again, failed. Though I can't help but stare at these broken, beat up sunglasses and wonder why, or how rather, that a man with so much life and so many things to live for, could do something like what he did. Yet here I am, describing the only thing that I can describe with the knowing that I could fulfill the task that was needed to be completed, while also allowing some truth to escape from my own pent up feelings. These glasses are truly something to marvel.