When confronted with a major decision, I’ve always relied on myself first. I believe that you must at least attempt to carry your own load before you could actually seek someone’s help. It’s essential to test the waters for us to answer the basic question – “Will I sink or swim? Ok, I’ll go figure". While others see you as (too) proud, I call it self-reliance.
I remember when I was little my grandmother won’t let me play with her newly refurbished vanity table. Since we were roommates then, I couldn’t resist touching this piece of furniture, it looked so shiny and new, quite appealing even to a child who knows nothing about vanity. I had a strong impulse to touch it that I even imagined the vanity table summoning me to do so.
Being a true-blue inquisitive vagabond in my grandmother’s old house, I finally found time to go beyond looking one afternoon. I run my fingers on its big round mirror and newly varnished smooth wooden surface, opened and closed its drawers and touched its glass top. I again run my fingers on the glass top including its edge, and started gliding my hand on it like the way you smoothen a wrinkled cloth, feeling the cold surface until I accidentally cut the back of my hand which jolted me back to reality.
I found the wound in my left hand bleeding, the gushing scarlet liquid scared me a bit and I rushed for the bathroom. I even rolled the front of my shirt on top of my bloody hand to conceal it from the adults in the kitchen as I passed them by. I made a number of back and forth trips to the bathroom as the bleeding did not stop. I found solution when I took some cotton from my Tita China’s room and pressed it against the cut.
I stayed in the garden swing all afternoon to keep my wound a secret from Nanay and all the other adults in the house. The expected amount of scolding as well as the fussing on me was not something I enjoyed. Days after, the wound dried up and became a scar and still nobody noticed it. A month passed and the scar never lightened even up to this day because it was not just any scar but a keloid half the size of a 5 centavo coin. It became my permanent mark, a symbol of my stubborn streak, but at least I handled it myself.
Being a true-blue inquisitive vagabond in my grandmother’s old house, I finally found time to go beyond looking one afternoon. I run my fingers on its big round mirror and newly varnished smooth wooden surface, opened and closed its drawers and touched its glass top. I again run my fingers on the glass top including its edge, and started gliding my hand on it like the way you smoothen a wrinkled cloth, feeling the cold surface until I accidentally cut the back of my hand which jolted me back to reality.
I found the wound in my left hand bleeding, the gushing scarlet liquid scared me a bit and I rushed for the bathroom. I even rolled the front of my shirt on top of my bloody hand to conceal it from the adults in the kitchen as I passed them by. I made a number of back and forth trips to the bathroom as the bleeding did not stop. I found solution when I took some cotton from my Tita China’s room and pressed it against the cut.
I stayed in the garden swing all afternoon to keep my wound a secret from Nanay and all the other adults in the house. The expected amount of scolding as well as the fussing on me was not something I enjoyed. Days after, the wound dried up and became a scar and still nobody noticed it. A month passed and the scar never lightened even up to this day because it was not just any scar but a keloid half the size of a 5 centavo coin. It became my permanent mark, a symbol of my stubborn streak, but at least I handled it myself.
Image: FlashGlitters
