A Cry To Existance

Untitled by Trudy Moser //

A Cry to Existence by Irina Choi //

There was a time, in time, when it all began for me. Who was I to say otherwise? I was the unheard cry. In fact, I had no voice, not even a mutter. Sometimes I feel like that now, just wanting to be heard and understood. There is, however, a difference between now and then. I’ve gained more knowledge, more self, there’s just a lot more to me...literally speaking. I’ve come to recognize this past event is deeply interwoven with all I have become, especially the fingerprints left on the knitting needles. 
I have heard lots of parents say how fast their kids grow up. I agree. These days I feel myself growing older, and like an untamed lion released from its cage, time has its way with me. I don’t even know where some days go; I just feel like I celebrated New Year’s yesterday, every day. But really, it’s nothing compared to how fast things were happening for me back then. You didn’t need a year calendar, time was marked in weeks...something I struggle to do now. Yes, it was definitely different.
My friends poke fun at me sometimes when they see my vintage Razr phone. But why do I have to adapt and conform to the ever changing world around me? They say, “I once had one of those...back in the day when it was cool to have one.” I guess it gives me an appreciation for my past...with no demanding outsiders, when all that surrounded my world seemed to be a lot more still.  I didn't have to change to please anyone. Strangely, I felt destined in all of my becoming’s. I didn’t have to resist the culture; I just went with the flow.  
MADE IN KAZAKHSTAN, TIME ZERO: So, basically, this “flow” was something like a domino effect, a cascade of events. And of course, the most important event is the incident with the first domino. In my case, it wasn’t a one night stand, it was a sacred devotion. 
WEEK 2: Then began a sensitive period in my life. This was a time, looking back, that I realize I was under the influence of someone...or, even some thing. Decisions were made for me, and whether they were good or bad, they became the hallmarks of my life.  
I have six siblings and it amazes me at how different we all are. It seems as we grow older I’m more aware of our unique characteristics. It’s funny to think I may share the same eye color as my sister, but looking out of the blue, we don’t always share the same views. The encryption that took place on me in those delicate days, wasn’t all that there was to me.  
WEEK 12: I could confess one of my deepest struggles is fear. More specifically, Fear of the future and its partner, Unknown. “What if?” is a classic in my book collection. Back in the day if one remarked “Don’t lose heart,” it wouldn’t hold significance for me as it does now. In fact, “losing heart” would have meant nothing to me, but every single, discovered beat of it meant the world to someone else.
WEEK 16: I must be a pretty curious person, or maybe just social. I'm always wondering what people are thinking. I tell people if I had to choose a super power, it would be to read minds. I also say that I don't believe in the word "boring." But, if there were no diversity, I would have to make an exception. There are so many factors in difference, but interestingly only two choices, "M" or "F", on any given document. Ironically, now, the letter makes a world of difference, dictating the rhythm of my life. I backtrack 27 years and realize it wasn’t just something to flaunt, to be marked and displayed for all to jubilate, but to the weak and exhausted one it was a silent wish granted.
I smile to think I evolved that day into just what was wanted and expected. I found that expectations are the key in many of my relationships, the most important one is with my mother. When I look back at my childhood years, growing up, I realize that one my greatest influences was the prayers and hopes she projected onto my life. I have been more and more convinced that I thrive on my mother’s approval, or rather, blessing. Most of my decisions in life were either made following her advice, or spending many hours contemplating how I could justify ignoring it. 
My rite of passage wasn’t the cutting of six tribal marks upon my forehead but, rather, a secret exchange of feminine goods as my older sister joyously whispered “You are now a woman!” I can’t say exactly when the stamp of adulthood was embedded upon me, but I’d like to recall a time when “I found myself.”
WEEK 19: I felt as though I was awoken from an eternity of sleep. It wasn’t a hitting the snooze button a million times kind of revival. It’s being startled by unseen voices echoing in the darkness. There was a voice however that beckoned my serenity. It drew me in when panic overtook me as light and sound would penetrate my calm existence.  
I sensed this time of tranquility coming to an end as the space around me narrowed, pushing on me from every side. This restlessness then cast a scar onto my childhood, as I would run the streets, with no intent of turning back. If only the streets hadn’t been covered by a blanket of darkness and my tiny belly were continually satisfied, I would have roamed this earth forever more. We reminisce these pastimes with my folks. They chuckle while recalling endless stories of adventure with no guarantee of my return.  
WEEK 24: These are the tales that help connect the dots. It’s no surprise why I crave to venture out and run free, this thirst for ongoing endeavors around the globe and reaching out to touch just one more life. How blind I was to think the chain that held me then would not come loose. My mother recollects the ways I seemed to threaten to come loose. I scratched and clawed to find my way, to vacate forever the cell that held me locked. My careless stabs and punches hurt the very one who brought serenity upon my darkest hours.  
WEEK 40: And finally she could no longer stand the ache, or maybe nature beckoned, as piercing screams diffused into my crammed abode. With no allay, no quick relief, the shock slashed violently the one my life depended on. It could have been my most traumatic memory, yet somehow it dissolves and vanishes as only the rays of light met my gasp for air.  
The shaking hands that cradled me that afternoon still to this day hold their embrace upon my days. And when fear shadows me as I gaze on her withering physique, into her tired eyes, I am reminded of that phrase I heard just yesterday “A mother’s hug lasts long after she lets go.”