THE STORM IS A THIEF
My childhood were full of merriest memories. I could remember, in every morning, me and my brothers would go to our little adventures; a little bit extreme, at that. We would race climbing up the trees and whoever came last has the most stinkiest feet, we would chase the ducks of Ms. Summers and came running back when the ducks had finally enough and chase us away ready to peck us with their long beaks, or when we decided to poke the beehive in Mrs. Donovan's backyard and ran as fast as we could while the angry bees followed, determined to prick their stings on our skin. And my mother who had enough hearing our neighbor's complaints about her three troublemakers, she would chase us with her beloved broomstick and—bam! We would sit on the dinner table with our bottom cheeks swollen from the swat of my mother's broomstick and my father who came from the factory would laugh at us while listening to our silly adventures on that day. Then we would start eating the roasted duck and apple pie that Mom cooked for us. There was no one, ever, in our town that could par with my Mom's roasted duck and apple pie, because it was so delicious that even the skilled chef and housewives of the town envied her for that.
We were a small family that lived on the small town, contented and happy with our life. Together. But then came the rainy season. When it is rainy season it was the time where typhoons would strike our town and knock a few trees and left our town in a pure mess.
After a few days of dark and windy day, the typhoon already came and we were stuck inside our home the whole day; the old scrambble game was the only entertainment that our family had to divert our attention from the gloomy, dark and raging nature outside our little home. It was dinner and my Mom made us her famous pumpkin soup, my favorite. We were happily chatting when we were interrupted by a rumble. All of us thought it was the fart of my little brother—but the rumbling came again followed by a shaking. It was fast and short that my parent's thought it was just the wind. But I knew it wasn't. It was something more.
The long, tiring and messy stormy night came to an end. And I stood there with my knees and arms scraped, my whole wet body were shivering from the cold and harsh wind. The whole town was in a mess. Hundred of dead bodies; humans or fishes, scattered everywhere. Some of them were under their wrecked house, some laid on the road, the backyards or gardens. Injured or not. A cry from behind me echoed, followed by another cry from my left until the cries of everyone, who survived the strong typhoon, surrounded me. I was left there, standing, staring a few steps away from me. My family were crushed down by our own house, their hands were sticking out as if they were asking for someone's help. And I knew who was it. Me.
The memory of the night came crashing down on me. The sight of the water rapidly entering our home from the small gap below our door, the shattering sound of the window where the water successfully entered. My parents shouting for our names and my little brother's warm hand holding my hand as we all desperately tried to get out of the house, trying to push ourselves out from the water current that was pushing us back inside, flooding our home, the water almost reaching the ceiling. Then it happened so fast, I felt someone's hand gripped my wrist and pushed me hard as they could and I was already out. I swam and swam with my little arms until I could reach the tallest tree near our house and looked back, expecting for my family to follow. Seconds turn to minutes and minutes turned into hours, but they didn't. I was the only left survivor from our family on that traumatizing, stormy night.
Decades had already passed and everyday I came to visit my family that was buried under the same place where they had died. I never missed a day coming back, paying my respects and looking back at that one stormy night. I can still remember those days clear as the crystalline, blue sky and I can still feel the muddy water on my skin. Since then, I hated the water because it reminded me of that night.
A girl who was living a few houses away came and asked me, "Mister, why are you always here everyday?"
I smiled at the girl and looked back at the candles and flowers I placed on top of the graveyards of my deceased family. "I came to find what I've lost, my happiness. And here, here lies the people who gave me so much happiness. A happiness that no one and nothing could ever replace."
We were the happiest family in this town not until that one bad, stormy night came and took it all from me and left me alone in this cold and cruel world as if to spite me.
The storm is a thief who robbed me of the days I was supposed to spend happily with my family.
