I always ran behind my father as he left to work, and cried if he took off without kissing me. I used to sit on the side of the garage, waiting for him to give me my kiss. My mother would sometimes call him to turn the car around, because she could not stand her baby crying. 

I used to sit on the stairs of our porch waiting for her to come back from work. If she was ever just a few minutes late, I would start crying and shouting her name out. But when my ears hear her footstep coming towards me, my eyes instantly dry out and I run to her. She would open her arms; embracing me, lifting me up, and twirling me around.

My father used to always ask me for a glass of water “3ala Zo2y” (Meaning, with my little touch) Oh, how I waited for him to ask me for that glass of water – every single day. I would struggle while cutting the lemon and trying to place it on the cup without it squirting any juice out. I had my own set of straws, and every day I would take out a certain color. Saturdays were always red. Sundays were always orange. Mondays were always yellow. Tuesdays were always blue. Wednesdays were always white. Thursdays were always purple. Fridays were always green.

I remember those days down to the slightest details. I always had the love towards exploring in the kitchen. The maids were almost always mean to me. Once, I placed a plastic bowl on the stove and started mixing every single liquid I could think of. Memory serves me well; I remember adding milk, water, fairy (Dishwashing Soap), coke, and juice. 

The plastic container started melting as soon as the stove lit up. I did not panic. I said to myself “Try the wooden container next time”. That day was the very same day I discovered socks; the long ones that reach as long as the knees. 

Looking back, I am still the same person – but everything changed. I no longer run after my father for a kiss goodbye, or hug my mom whenever I come back home. I lost my passion towards exploring things, and I do not remember the last time I found socks that intriguing. 

Twenty ten has been the year for me. I now know what the term year stands for. A year is not 12 months. A year is not 48 weeks. A year is not 365 days. A year is not 8760 hours. A year is when we experience all emotions. A year is when we go through a dozen happy moments, and dozen sad moments. A year is not a year if we did not feel the agony of living, the sourness of hope, and the pain of loving. A year is not a year if we did not love, hope, and trust. 

A year is a cycle of emotions, not days. I cannot believe that a whole year has passed yet once again. I cannot gasp the meaning of twenty ten coming to an end. It has been both the best year (yet) then the worst year (yet). And I fear of yet, because it always seems to become worse, not better. 

Every year we think that this time around, it will be better. When will we stop lying to ourselves? When will we accept the reality that it will never get better? When will we understand that years are a series of non-happenings? 

We fall between the elapses of time, and we hope. That is what we do. We want to believe that good things happen to good people, but when we look around – all that is good does not happen to the good. However, who are we to decide who is good and who is not? 

It saddens me how the days just roll by, and all we do is look forward to the future and want it, or look back at the past and miss it. 

Have you ever thought about it?

Have you ever thought that today marks a day you were once looking forward to? 

Today was yesterday’s future. My hopes for a day like today were of rainbows, pots of gold, and rabbits. What is today? Today is a dark corner in an abandon alley, dirty, and stripped off the sugar coated dreams I once had.

Expectations have always had a way of letting me down. No matter how low my expectations are, they always seem too high for my reach. I wonder – is it really only me who feels that? Could I be the only person who feels that way?

Pain is bound to happen. Suffering is a choice.

What am I in pain from? Time.

Why time? Because time let me down.

Not people? No. Time.

Why time? Because time hurts.

How? By passing by.

How does it pass by? Selectively.

Why does that hurt? Because it only passes quickly when it pleases.

When will it stop hurting? I do not know.

My father always had a nickname for me. I never understood what it meant, when I asked him once – he said “It means petite”. And when I asked him what Petite means, he said “My angel”.

He stopped calling me that.

And I never asked who his angel was.

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