Wolf

This is a true story.

A scar that has healed on my finger
Reminds me of it everyday
The incident as vividly I remember
Tattooed in memory,  you could say.

I was seventeen then,  my brother, older.
Six children cramped in that place,
A six-door apartment that cannot be wider
Its ceiling was cracked,  and the paint lost its glaze.

We were not beggar-poor but neither rich,
So the absence of luxuries were a fact.
We spent warm afternoons on the yard in which
We never craved for whatever we lacked.

One lazy afternoon,  at almost sunset,
We had come into the house for supper.
My eldest brother remained outside to let
The late hours of night somehow linger.

Then came this tall and boisterous man
Who demanded some ice for his drinks,
My brother explained that we had none,
But I felt there was trouble,  by instinct.

The man shouted expletives as my brother came in,
And in fear,  we shut the door behind him.
As my brother said, "Duck! he's got a gun!"
We turned off  the lights, the whole house was dim.

The man broke some windows and fired some shots,
Gave vent to his anger out there in the street.
As we ran out the backdoor into a vacant lot,
A glass cut my hand and wounded my feet.

We ran to the neighbors and we said, "Help us please!
Our lives are in danger from a man with a gun!"
Can they kindly call up the authorities?
Then they told us,  "the drunk,  he's a policeman!"









Cynthia Buhain Baello
March 2, 2008
Philippines

Reviews

[David Lewis Paget]

How horrific! What on earth can we do in such circumstances. No wonder you never forgot the incident, and that scar will ever remind you of your escape.