(Running out of ideas in revising my assignment, stopped. Just wrote something random, for fun, as self- narrative, free and not restricted…)
Moments
--Tears of Life
I
I cried much less than other people, no, other women.
At the beginning, I thought it is because I am “brave”
or “strong” until one day I remembered
an incident of my childhood. A little girl of five
lying beside the feet of a tired woman
crying herself to sleep, first heartbroken, then, worried.
With wet pillow sticky to her cheeks
falling into a troubled dream, in it the mother died, she
cried again in her dream. All those tears in
and out the dream was generated
by one sentence—“ I might be dying.” How many times
I heard this sentence and believed. Mother did not die
she is still alive. But I hate to cry, ashamed
of crying when growing up.
II
There was a rain storm. I rushed into the classroom, shaking raindrops from my head and coat. My damaged boots wet and my socks uncomfortable, I, my face blue!
You were standing in front of me, looking down at my boots, and into my angry self. Lad, there was a smear of smile on your face when you cast a glance that revealed you were cheerful and sarcastic, and more.... I knew, you belonged to the dangerous group.
It didn't rain all the time; I also got your glimpse when my scrabbled pages were read aloud in class. You got my peep when your math scored above us all. I never know whether I ever smiled back; my sister said I did. But I was aware I chased your glances like I was stamping my name on the promise of the wind, and in those 1800 total days.
