There was not even a sign of teenager or anyone in her 20’s or even 30’s living in that house that could be her friend. I was just exploring when I saw a strange thing, a family photograph of an old man and an old woman. I thought of exploring the house, a stranger's house. We ate snacks, danced, sang and did all the things that we missed for so many years. "Oh no, it is one of my friend's house, she is away for a week so she told me to stay here only". "Hey, is this a kind of hotel? It doesn't look like that" I really wanted it since a long time.Īfter a lot of chit chat, I asked her the question which I wanted to since I came to her house. In a red long gown, hair tightly tied at the top she gave me a tight hug. It was someone's house that she was staying in, definitely not a hotel or a rented house. She was coming back to Los Angeles, my city after almost 12 years. There was not even a single day I missed her. After that she was sent to her uncle's house in Boston. When she was eleven her parents died in a road accident. Actually, she was my best friend when we were kids. Unknowingly the daily tending of the goats hones my sound sense of responsibility, character and some X factor abilities which I have yet to discover. It forges a poignant heartwarming bond between us.
He helps me in my early morning study routine. I discern maybe I am my father’s favorite after all. He garnishes and tops it with some fresh spinach, eggplant, bell pepper and tomatoes all from his garden. It is his creation delicacy from a Cassava flour and a little salt. This time it is Cachupoi Alu he calls it. Cooking peculiar food that is never heard of is one of them. My father shows his gratitude in various ways. He says, though I am still young for the task, I managed and the goats are breeding well. I overhear him conversing with my mother as they lay in bed, thinking I am already asleep. When everything settles, my father is in excellent mood. The mad goat seems to get his dose of reprimand from his parents because they are all so noisy when they see him. My father drags him hard around to detach him from his love one. But the mad goat will not leave his love one that simple. To my relief I even hug the goat, overpowering my irritation. True enough, it is just around the neighborhood.
Fortunately, in less than an hour we finally find him. We check the goats’ resting places from one neighbor to another. What if I may encounter a huge snake blocking the road? Why can’t my father find the goat by himself? Why would he have me find it in the middle of the night? Can’t it wait in the morning? Maybe, he does not see me as a fragile girl. He does not even bother to ask me if I’ve had one. More so, my father usually asks me to ensure that the goats get their snacks. I think my father loves the goat more than myself. Can I account all the neighbors who are tending goats? I count like three to five.
Pronto! He supposes I must use my deductive ability. My retribution, father asks me to locate the mad goat. The vibrant and lush Cogon Grasses are their favorites, spreading on both sides of a limestone road where one spur is routing to our home. It keeps on growing and growing while the goats eat them daily.
I usher the goats every day to a grassy area on a façade backdrop of two-story, ebony colored, wooden bungalow houses of the affluent families in our village. I spend every moment with the goats I enjoy it. Tending the goats and expanding their numbers require my time and discipline. Why did I miss out to check thoroughly if the goats are complete? I have no idea that I am engaged in a much bigger task. Well, he did warn me that goats are foolish when in mating age. He cannot believe one of the goats is missing. Today, one of the goats encounters his love interest.
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