miyako73
06-15-2012, 01:15 PM
She looked fierce. Her eyes did not trust. She stared her anger at me.
When I first saw her, she moved around lost and confused. She might have seen me first. To show she was tough, she made eye-to-eye with me like she etched my curious face in her mind. I continued walking like I did not see her, but my nosy glances still came out obvious. I wanted to find out what she was doing and why she was there. She might have doubted the earnest globes of my eyes. In a hurry, she collected her stuff and fled. I must have scared her, although I had no intention to report her presence.
I understood her paranoid distrust of strangers. She did not know me. Alone and worried, she felt helpless and vulnerable. She looked heavy for her diminutive size. Even her gait from the back seemed like she was pulling herself or carrying a weight or something. “She could be pregnant,” I thought.
A few steps across from my place was an empty apartment. Its door facing mine had no lock and knob, always half-open. The windows closed and the blinds shut and completely pulled down, the wind could not get in and push the door that stayed ajar.
The previous occupants trashed the place to get back at the owner who evicted them. I heard it was not only due to nonpayment of rent. They were messy--it could be true. I had observed the woman of the house several times; she did not care about her and her kids' hygiene.
The owner had not fixed the place to preserve the evidence. He filed a case and wanted the court to see the apartment before he would have it renovated. What happened was a big story in the neighborhood, which made crime watch as everyone’s lookout.
It was in the residential agreement that we had to report anything odd and suspicious, but I had no intention to report her. I had a soft heart for vagrants. They had enough load in life, and I did not want to add more. She made the empty apartment her temporary shelter. She would be gone all day, and at night she would come home.
I did not mind her like she did not exist, and she stayed there as if someone allowed her. Not long after, she began ignoring me. She comfortably did her routine in and out. She brought her food that looked like from a garbage bin and took out her trash when she did some cleaning. She hoarded small things. I heard from my mom before that pregnancy could induce someone to like things or crave for random stuff—exotic food, tiny toys, and insignificant collectibles. I did not wonder why she brought plastics and rocks. Maybe she fancied their shapes or perhaps she needed those plastic sheets. I thought of giving her a blanket, but I did not want to scare her again. I left her alone.
One morning, my brother came to visit me. Before he could take off his shoes and rest on the couch, I told him about her and asked him to check if she was alright. I had not seen her for almost a week. She had been in the empty apartment for more than three Sundays already. I heard from a neighbor that the owner won the case and that the renovation would start the next day. That made me worry. My brother went to check, while I brewed his favorite coffee.
“Sister, come!” he yelled from inside.
The urgency of his voice startled me. Many tragic, morbid thoughts came to mind. I knocked on the wood and hoped it was not about her or her baby.
“Come… come… look at this!” he yelled again.
I turned off the coffeemaker and ran outside, into the apartment, towards my brother, who was holding a Vons Market plastic bag he pulled from one of the smashed kitchen drawers. He picked up the gray-feathered chick abandoned in the nest.
“What a mother!” I said to myself after a short, silent prayer.
The chick hatched fully but had no right leg. His gray feathers were soft and sparse. His beak, still too small to chirp, cracked and curved. He was emaciated but bloating. He must have died the night or the day before. The half-cut worm dropped on the floor, just below the nest on the dining wall, was still wiggling alive. His bunting mother must have abandoned him recently. She left him to starve and die.
As my brother twisted and tied the plastic bag, I wondered, “Was it his right leg or her postpartum?”
When I first saw her, she moved around lost and confused. She might have seen me first. To show she was tough, she made eye-to-eye with me like she etched my curious face in her mind. I continued walking like I did not see her, but my nosy glances still came out obvious. I wanted to find out what she was doing and why she was there. She might have doubted the earnest globes of my eyes. In a hurry, she collected her stuff and fled. I must have scared her, although I had no intention to report her presence.
I understood her paranoid distrust of strangers. She did not know me. Alone and worried, she felt helpless and vulnerable. She looked heavy for her diminutive size. Even her gait from the back seemed like she was pulling herself or carrying a weight or something. “She could be pregnant,” I thought.
A few steps across from my place was an empty apartment. Its door facing mine had no lock and knob, always half-open. The windows closed and the blinds shut and completely pulled down, the wind could not get in and push the door that stayed ajar.
The previous occupants trashed the place to get back at the owner who evicted them. I heard it was not only due to nonpayment of rent. They were messy--it could be true. I had observed the woman of the house several times; she did not care about her and her kids' hygiene.
The owner had not fixed the place to preserve the evidence. He filed a case and wanted the court to see the apartment before he would have it renovated. What happened was a big story in the neighborhood, which made crime watch as everyone’s lookout.
It was in the residential agreement that we had to report anything odd and suspicious, but I had no intention to report her. I had a soft heart for vagrants. They had enough load in life, and I did not want to add more. She made the empty apartment her temporary shelter. She would be gone all day, and at night she would come home.
I did not mind her like she did not exist, and she stayed there as if someone allowed her. Not long after, she began ignoring me. She comfortably did her routine in and out. She brought her food that looked like from a garbage bin and took out her trash when she did some cleaning. She hoarded small things. I heard from my mom before that pregnancy could induce someone to like things or crave for random stuff—exotic food, tiny toys, and insignificant collectibles. I did not wonder why she brought plastics and rocks. Maybe she fancied their shapes or perhaps she needed those plastic sheets. I thought of giving her a blanket, but I did not want to scare her again. I left her alone.
One morning, my brother came to visit me. Before he could take off his shoes and rest on the couch, I told him about her and asked him to check if she was alright. I had not seen her for almost a week. She had been in the empty apartment for more than three Sundays already. I heard from a neighbor that the owner won the case and that the renovation would start the next day. That made me worry. My brother went to check, while I brewed his favorite coffee.
“Sister, come!” he yelled from inside.
The urgency of his voice startled me. Many tragic, morbid thoughts came to mind. I knocked on the wood and hoped it was not about her or her baby.
“Come… come… look at this!” he yelled again.
I turned off the coffeemaker and ran outside, into the apartment, towards my brother, who was holding a Vons Market plastic bag he pulled from one of the smashed kitchen drawers. He picked up the gray-feathered chick abandoned in the nest.
“What a mother!” I said to myself after a short, silent prayer.
The chick hatched fully but had no right leg. His gray feathers were soft and sparse. His beak, still too small to chirp, cracked and curved. He was emaciated but bloating. He must have died the night or the day before. The half-cut worm dropped on the floor, just below the nest on the dining wall, was still wiggling alive. His bunting mother must have abandoned him recently. She left him to starve and die.
As my brother twisted and tied the plastic bag, I wondered, “Was it his right leg or her postpartum?”