Search for my Luna

Lil

The sun was going down on the horizon. I could hear my own footsteps while walking down the street. I came from our school. The very old and wrinkled structures were aligned on both sides of the streets. Some people were sitting calmly on the chairs outside their huge houses while those children were playing hide and seek. After a few minutes of walking, I arrived at the front of our house. Our house was just simple, and we were just as simple too.

My mother was a vendor, while my father was a peasant. They both had not completed their schooling. My mother had only finished her elementary days, and my father was in high school. Because their families were indigent, they were forced to stop schooling and work instead. But though we were poor, my parents were rich in love. They always provided my necessities, such as shelter, food, clothing, learning, and love.

I sometimes dream of becoming rich. I was envious of my classmates whose parents were giving them everything they wanted, such as fancy clothes, and gadgets. I was envious of other people who lived in huge houses and did nothing but sit on their chairs and play Mahjong with the other wealthy people.

The door thudded, and I noticed my mother was wearing her usual plain, green shirt with a stain in the center; when I was younger, I mistook that stain for an eye, and I was afraid to look at it. My mother was wearing old leggings and sneakers too. I knew she was hard to get to buy her own things; she was always wearing her old clothes.

My parents worked every day, though sometimes they could not eat their meals just to get to work early. My father was a farmer who owned a small piece of land for cultivation, and my mother was the one who sold the harvests from our farm.

For me, my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her deep brown eyes seemed to tell me how much she cared; her pointed nose, brown skin, and lips that never get dry. Though she was always working, she still had time for herself, for me, and for my father.

"Oh! Son, what happened to your forehead?" She asked.

I touched my brow and felt a bit of pain. The thing seemed wet. As I looked at my finger, I saw a dark, red liquid with an inexplicable smell. I knew it was made by those boys who could do nothing in their lives but wait for their victims in the streets. But even though there were many bullies who always hurt me, I'd never told my mother and especially my father, because he would surely find a way to punish them.

"Nothing, I just bumped myself on the pole," I lied.

"Come in and we will cure that," my mother replied. "You don't feel pain?"

Though I made too many mistakes, my mother never get mad. She was always telling me that "we cannot go back in the past and change what we have done wrong. Let us live in the present time and get our lessons from it, so that we can't do it again in the future."

"Aw!" I exclaimed. "Please make it easy. It hurts." I complained, whimpering, and trying to avoid my mother's fingers touching the wound on my forehead.

"Sorry, but it's just a small wound, so stop overacting," my mother replied.

"Hey, what happened to that child?" My father got inside the house, hung his hat on the peg, and sat down on the wooden chair beside us.

I knew he came from the farm because he looked exhausted and the moisture on his face and neck had diffused. My father was the most handsome man in the world, though sometimes he was unkind, somewhat cruel and overprotective. He had a high-pointed nose, short black hair, which took a long time to grow, and round, brown eyes.