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Walking back into my grandparent's kitchen after being gone for so many years and below the present circumstances caused a flood of bittersweet feelings which seemed to steal the most breath from my body. As my eyes combed the space, I noticed people, some I knew, some I didn't, standing in small groups of two or three, all of them wearing black and all of them attempting to maintain a solemn composure by laughing at jokes which weren't funny or by recalling a past best left unremembered. The funeral had been over for hours , but such as the small sucker fish that symbiotically clings to the underside of the great white shark hopes of feeding the shark's leftovers, everyone in the wake appeared to wish to hang on, like they too were waiting for their own great white shark to cling on to. A feeling of remembrance, longing, and anger, all wrapped up in a neat, stinging package, seemed to grip me as I made my way to his place in the table. The sound of this shuffling of my own feet against the brown and black linoleum floor pounded in my ears as I ventured into the one place that, until this very day, was off limits to all Lee Singleton's kids. The battered grey file cabinet that sat beside by grandfather's wooden Captain's seat had a dual pair of drawers and a heavy, somber-looking padlock. As I moved closer to his seat at the kitchen table, the cupboard shouted out to me, gestured to me, as if begging me to view the contents within. Just like a child trying to shoplift his first gumball from the local general store, I nervously fumbled with the massive ring of assorted keys, hands shaking, palms sweat, until finally I found the ideal key and opened the padlock that secure my grandfather's excess of financial ledgers.