The Origin of my 'Little Scar'

    The life of this author started on the 16 th  day of July 2008. In the last days of August, my grandmother suddenly passed. As a result, my baptism was rushed and I received the name Zithri Jezreel which means "protected" and "good seed" in Hebrew. That said, only a few people attended, leaving me little to no godparents. My aunt has always been the  one who took care of me, from PTA meetings, outside tours, and even in normal weekends watching Showtime. I was diagnosed with 'weak lungs' which means I had to take my nebulizer occasionally. I may have had a rough start; I will utilize every ounce of my abilities to have a better future.

    4-year-old me developed a strong bond with my aunt. From accompanying me in daycare, to feeling the baby's kicks in her belly. Her presence was all I wanted to the point that little me would cling on her leg, begging to go with her on her work. 

    I have met other 3rd graders who I got along well with and  one of which invited me to an after-class birthday party.  I sat on a monoblock chair—enjoying the cheesy spaghetti with hotdogs—while they constantly told me to eat more. It is not the birthday party that etched the details of that day on my brain, it is about what happened in the evening. A phone call rang on my mother's phone and read the name of my uncle, Mario.  I excitedly answered the phone and brought it to my mother—who was in the bathroom after a long day—as I understood the call wasn't for me.  As I ran swiftly to my mother, I realized the noise of a baby crying emanating from the small trinket in my hand.  Happy as I was then, only one side of that phone call was heard. 

    The clock's shorter hand has passed through the number 12, I was awakened with the mourns of the grown-ups. The tone of that cry did not have the slightest hint to what you would be thinking of when a person sheds tears of joy. Curiosity-driven, I made it to the living room. It is filled with blinding bright lights and a white box.  My uncle saw me and picked me up. He made me sit on his lap and carefully whispered to me " Awanen ni mama'm Bitang'n. Pinanawan natan. " I burst into tears and came to the realization I had lost my dearest friend. People say "you hold a piece of my heart" but on that very night, it felt as if something plunged into my chest and grabbed that pulsating muscle.

    To this day, I've started to realize that I have to let go of people eventually. Not all of them will stick through all of eternity. Young as I was, it has left a little scar on me, a devastating crack. A scar that sears with loneliness. A scar that reminds me people come and go.  A scar that tells me I should value independence. That is why I picture myself as a glass. Even when you melt and reshape a broken glass, it inevitably retains a few missing specks of its former self.

References;

The Origin of my 'Little Scar'. (2023). www.blogger.com. Retrieved October 4, 2023, from https://zithribaclig.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-origin-of-my-little-scar.html