I’m picking one by one coins that got mixed up with shards from a broken glass container that used to hold my loose coins. The transparent glass container used to be the home of my fighting fish I named Hachiko. Do I miss that little creature? Yes I do. I regretted leaving it in that room in Mandaluyong that is hardly reached by the rays of the sun. I’m imagining how my fish must have wanted to see a little light. Hachiko died eight months after it was given to me as a birthday gift.

It’s a dangerous task, but I need to do it because my sister has already complained how the paper bag that contains the broken pieces of glass and coins mixture keeps her from completely shutting the cupboard door. To appease her, I am undertaking this perilous job.

And after sometime doing this, it occurs to me that I can’t go on hurting like this forever.



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