On these empty streets I walk alone.

"You were a family of five, and now you're four. You can't afford to lose another."


When I was a little girl, I remember my Mom would tell me stories about her childhood in the Philippines. She would crouch down low among the grass, and catch dragonflies by their tails. She told me of the music, the culture, and the scenery. I would envy it, because I felt there was so much to explore. Her family moved to America a few years later, and she told me of her new experiences in the Catholic school, and of all the funny memories in that old house on Orange Drive. In the flurry of plaid-skirted memories and obnoxiously tousled hair, there in the middle of it all was the essence of being a true, independent woman.

Most of all, I remember her telling me of her duties (much like mine) as the oldest daughter. She told me that even though she sometimes didn't like it, and even though it was sometimes a major pain, she had felt the obligation to take care of her younger siblings. She told me that they were always there for one another- that each and every one of them had a close knit bond. They all had their part in keeping that family together, through the thick and the thin, and no matter what sort of hardship was given to them as a family, they'd see it through. They obviously left a powerful legacy and certainly they all have held that belief to this very day, because I'd venture to say that my whole family has got to be one of the most noble and loyal families that I have ever encountered (regardless of biased opinion).

I feel guilty because I'm so selfish. I'm not as organized as I should be, and I'm not as supportive as I am called to be.

I feel like I'm a laughingstock, and have become the village fool of that Holy Sanctity down the Freeway. I can almost feel their jeers, sneers, and whispers behind me. They stare in my direction, like I didn't just pass by. Invisible, and just another fallen rusted leaf among the autumn trees. Perfection is impossible to attain, and they of all people should understand that.

The most important person in my life is gone, and I still have so many questions to ask. I find myself walking along that dusty path into the canyons, talking to the trees that we once passed by.
My questions fall flat against those hard, raw hides. Perhaps the answers are there, but they are fleeting along with the cold, dry winds. Instead, I'm left with the brittle rustling of oak tree branches, and the answers that I so long for are lost in translation.