I cried many times in my childhood years. Some are just because of trivial matters, like being injured and such. Most of them I don’t even remember. But I remember three memorable times that made me cry.
* * *
I was, I think, about two years old when my parents first left me alone at home. No big deal. Yup, I was a brave baby. I did not cry that I was left alone, heck, it was even night time. But then, it began to rain. Then the lightning flashed… then, you guessed it, the terrifying sound of thunder rumbled. The thunders roared like it was the end of the world (exaggeration maybe… but to a two-year old baby, I don’t think so). That was the time that I cried. I cried like a baby (wait… I was a baby). I don’t know how long I cried. The continuing sounds of thunder terrified me. I only stopped when my parents arrived.
* * *
The second experience I’ll tell you, I was years older – I was in the late part of my first decade. My mother took me with her when she and her workmates went to Manila. We were roaming around the mall there, when I unconsciously (or consciously?) wandered away from my mother.
I realized I was lost. My face paled. My heart beat louder and faster. I was afraid. It would be okay if I got lost in Legazpi, at least the places are familiar. But that was Manila. I do not know anybody there (now I know several friends and acquaintances there). I was a kid, a little below ten years old, alone and afraid. But I hold on, I refused to cry.
I made another mistake. Instead of staying at one place, I roamed around to search for my mother – or her workmates. The mall was big, and it was foolish to do that. It took minutes (which were like hours) when my mother finally found me. When I saw her, I couldn’t control my emotion any longer. I cried. I cried out the fear I felt. And I cried of relief.
* * *
I cried in those two circumstances because of fear – fear of the loud thunder, and fear of being lost.
This third one, I cried because of hurt. Not of physical one. But a deep hurt in the heart – worse than a physical one.
I was about ten years old, watching TV, when suddenly I heard a commotion outside. I looked outside the window and saw our neighbor’s large black dog (I forgot the breed. But it was like the Hound of Baskervilles… exaggeration again? Maybe) causing havoc outside, and then suddenly the dog bit the neck of one of my cats. Shiela was the cat’s name, and moreover she was pregnant. In a panic state, I searched for the door’s key and took one of my pellet gun (Uzi model). When I finally went outside, the dog was dragging my cat down the road. It was terrible watching my bloodied and helpless cat struggling between the large jaws. I tried to shoot and shoot the dog with my pellet gun, but the hellish dog can’t feel the sting of the pellets. The dog kept on his hold on my cat’s severed neck, shaking his head, snarling, his teeth dripping with blood.
I was not able to save my cat. Shiela died, but the dog still did not let go the limp body of my cat. I cried hard as I walk back to our house. It hurt a lot. It was terrible. I cried long and hard. I felt weak and terrible. My mother bought me a magazine to comfort me, but though it calmed me a little, I was still hurting and sad.
That was the last time I really cried. The last of boyhood tears.
* * *
In all those circumstances, in some sense, I was brave. But not brave enough. I was brave enough to be left alone at home – but not enough for the thunder. I was brave enough from being lost – but foolish to not stay in one place. I was brave enough to confront a big dog that could had easily injured or killed me – but, still, it was not enough to save Shiela.
* * *
Now, I still get afraid. I still get hurt.
And there is still a lot of thundering around at me. I still get lost. I still lose a lot things – important things – in my life. But I think I’m braver and stronger now. No use crying over them.
* * *
I was, I think, about two years old when my parents first left me alone at home. No big deal. Yup, I was a brave baby. I did not cry that I was left alone, heck, it was even night time. But then, it began to rain. Then the lightning flashed… then, you guessed it, the terrifying sound of thunder rumbled. The thunders roared like it was the end of the world (exaggeration maybe… but to a two-year old baby, I don’t think so). That was the time that I cried. I cried like a baby (wait… I was a baby). I don’t know how long I cried. The continuing sounds of thunder terrified me. I only stopped when my parents arrived.
* * *
The second experience I’ll tell you, I was years older – I was in the late part of my first decade. My mother took me with her when she and her workmates went to Manila. We were roaming around the mall there, when I unconsciously (or consciously?) wandered away from my mother.
I realized I was lost. My face paled. My heart beat louder and faster. I was afraid. It would be okay if I got lost in Legazpi, at least the places are familiar. But that was Manila. I do not know anybody there (now I know several friends and acquaintances there). I was a kid, a little below ten years old, alone and afraid. But I hold on, I refused to cry.
I made another mistake. Instead of staying at one place, I roamed around to search for my mother – or her workmates. The mall was big, and it was foolish to do that. It took minutes (which were like hours) when my mother finally found me. When I saw her, I couldn’t control my emotion any longer. I cried. I cried out the fear I felt. And I cried of relief.
* * *
I cried in those two circumstances because of fear – fear of the loud thunder, and fear of being lost.
This third one, I cried because of hurt. Not of physical one. But a deep hurt in the heart – worse than a physical one.
I was about ten years old, watching TV, when suddenly I heard a commotion outside. I looked outside the window and saw our neighbor’s large black dog (I forgot the breed. But it was like the Hound of Baskervilles… exaggeration again? Maybe) causing havoc outside, and then suddenly the dog bit the neck of one of my cats. Shiela was the cat’s name, and moreover she was pregnant. In a panic state, I searched for the door’s key and took one of my pellet gun (Uzi model). When I finally went outside, the dog was dragging my cat down the road. It was terrible watching my bloodied and helpless cat struggling between the large jaws. I tried to shoot and shoot the dog with my pellet gun, but the hellish dog can’t feel the sting of the pellets. The dog kept on his hold on my cat’s severed neck, shaking his head, snarling, his teeth dripping with blood.
I was not able to save my cat. Shiela died, but the dog still did not let go the limp body of my cat. I cried hard as I walk back to our house. It hurt a lot. It was terrible. I cried long and hard. I felt weak and terrible. My mother bought me a magazine to comfort me, but though it calmed me a little, I was still hurting and sad.
That was the last time I really cried. The last of boyhood tears.
* * *
In all those circumstances, in some sense, I was brave. But not brave enough. I was brave enough to be left alone at home – but not enough for the thunder. I was brave enough from being lost – but foolish to not stay in one place. I was brave enough to confront a big dog that could had easily injured or killed me – but, still, it was not enough to save Shiela.
* * *
Now, I still get afraid. I still get hurt.
And there is still a lot of thundering around at me. I still get lost. I still lose a lot things – important things – in my life. But I think I’m braver and stronger now. No use crying over them.
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