This is an edited excerpt of something written in 2011.
Fourteen years have passed, but I am still weeping. “Hasn’t my night ended yet?”, I angrily ask myself. “Weeping may endure for a night…” I stare at the picture nestled between the pages of my treasured Bible.
The picture is worn with age, but the extreme sadness expressed on each sorrowful face has not aged. It is still living. It lives deep, deep inside my troubled soul.
I was the oldest of three girls. My parents used to tell me that I was an unlucky child. Night and day, day and night they drilled it into my little head. The villagers seemed to believe this as well. Could I have helped that I was born on a Friday, February 13th 2000? How ridiculous their apprehension seemed to me! And how ridiculously, yet sadly true this omen proved to be.
When I turned thirteen, no one showed up to my party. In fact, the entire village was silent.
It was almost as if they were watching, wondering, waiting for something to happen.
I could hardly blame them; the date was February 13th 2013. Maybe if someone had dared to come out, the tragedy would not have taken place.
It was my fault! Why was I cursed? I was so absent-minded! I was 13! I only wanted to play with my sisters in the river…
As we walked back in the darkness, every shadow seemed to whisper premonitions to me: “Unlucky, Unlucky, The Unlucky Girl”. I quickened my footsteps, dragging my sisters behind me. I could feel it in my blood. Something was wrong.
As I neared the house, persons screamed and drew away. I could only stare…and stare…and stare. It was too late. My name “Hope” seemed to taunt me with the obvious irony that tainted me.
My sisters and I wept bitterly that day. All I wanted was my sisters’ comforting words telling me that it was not my fault.
The news reporters had a different idea. They snapped pictures and asked us endless questions. When the story came out, no reporter failed to point out that it was “Hope’s fault” or simply “Thirteen is indeed an unlucky number”. Each heading brought a fresh set of tears to my eyes and I bawled like a baby.
Thirteen years ago, I wept for my parents. Today, at age 26, I no longer weep for my parents; I weep for myself. “Weeping may endure for a night…”
I am haunted by the words of the news reporters. “Weeping may endure for a night…”
I am haunted by the faces of the angry, superstitious villagers. “Weeping may endure for a night…”
I am haunted by the voices of my parents. “Weeping may endure for a night…”
I am haunted by the tears of my sisters. “Weeping may endure for a night…”
I am haunted by the fact that I was responsible for my parents’ death. Me, Hope: the hopeless child. “Weeping may endure for a night…”
I am haunted by the fact that my joy has not come and will never come in the morning. “Weeping may endure for a night…”
NO!! My weeping will endure for a lifetime.