Wild Grass

I noticed wild grass growing by the roadside while on my way to work. They are dirty compared to the grass that grows in the province. They are covered with soot from the city pollution. Then I wondered how it would feel to live like a wild grass growing by the highway.

The weekend was fine. It was like a void in-between nightmares, but I appreciate the rest time it gave me and the bonding time with my cousin. She is migrating to the U.S. before the year ends. Lucky her.

Earlier today, I saw my mother cry. No, not just cry with tears rolling down her cheeks the way she does when reading a sad book or watching a sad movie or crying over a dead relative. My mother is a strong woman, she seldom cries... well, in front of us that is. But I saw her today. She didn't just cry. She sobbed. Out loud. As if she wants all the heaviness in her heart to pour out like her tears.

A few minutes before that, I was the sole witness to an argument between her and my father. It was about money, as usual. The reason was that my father spent a part of the money I gave them last week. He said he bought food with it. You see, my father is the family cook. With that, he is also the one buying our daily food in the nearby market. Then my mother, like her usual self, scolded him. She said that gave him budget for food. He should have been careful enough not to spend too much since we live on a daily budget. Not to mention the fact that our landlord has been on our case with our two-month unpaid rent.

They were arguing and I made a swift exit to the silence of my room. Then my mother went to me and asked me if it was okay if we just give our PC as a payment. (You see, the PC was a graduation gift to me.) I said yes. (I had difficulty saying it but I had to.) It was not just the PC. It includes the table, speakers, printer and scanner. It was not worth two months of rent. But better give it than find ourselves without a home. She left me alone and after a while I went to my brother's room. My brother was at school that time and my mom was there. We just looked at each other then I looked away. Then there was a phonecall for her. I went back to the room and she was there, sobbing. She did not take the call so I had to make up a lame excuse to the caller.

I didn't know what to feel that time. I wanted to cry but I can't. I have been crying almost every night for the past few weeks and that time, the tears won't flow. I felt heavy inside. As if I realized for the first time the burden of our problems at home-- the same problems I want to escape from.

I did not kiss my father good bye before I left for work. Usually he is watching TV or sleeping already before I leave the house. My mom said he was outside. Probably getting some cool air and thinking some things out. My mother was worried because she thought my father got lost or something. (He's old so that is possible. He is already 60.) Or he might be in one of his crazy moods and might spend the night on the streets. (He never did that before though. I was just thinking he could do that because my father sometimes do overreact and is super sensitive, which I think, is due to old age too.)

Some people say, it's just money. That I'm lucky I still have my family with me. That love, not money, makes the world go round. Probably that person has not experienced poverty yet. He/she does not know how bad it can be for a family who is struggling to maintain the bond that ties them together, just because of a piece of paper with value. How other people would resort to crimes just for the money. I am just glad we keep on struggling and we did not have to resort to that.

There are times when I want to be a different person. When I wonder why good things happen to other people and not to me.

Then I'm thinking of the wild grass growing by the highway. They are existing, but I don't know for what purpose exactly. They're just there, swaying with the polluted wind, gathering all the soot. Forgotten and unloved.

Would I trade my life with that of a wild grass?

(thinks for a moment)

Probably not.