It was a cloudy night the mist was approaching through the North soon the little village where I was born would be engulf with a cloudy white smoke atmosphere, but I was too little to know what was going on. My mother Sylvestina, Tina as she was called by her friends was parking her cloths in her suitcase getting ready to take a long trip in the morning she would be gone sitting near the window facing the wall was my father Gonzague but everyone call him Hugh, with a loud voice I heard him say to my mother have you finish parking yet we must be on our way before the fog get too bad, my name is Kenvil folks around here just call me Wings, and this is my story. I was born in the Village of Micoud on the Island of Saint Lucia in the year nineteen hundred and fifty two, it is a rare story, the story of my child hood days is one of