Time went by…ever so slowly as the knitting needle rolled smoothly across the glass-topped roundtable. A heavy sigh escaped from pouting lips…mine.
The object and cause of disappointment was sprawled motionlessly on my lap. The string of green that must have gone through World War II seemed to taunt me. Why I couldn’t get it right, I didn’t know. It looked so easy when my friends were doing it.
Simple knitting, Sheryl! I scolded myself. How could something so simple be so complicated?
I knew it was silly being so crestfallen over inanimate objects as if the whole world depended on it. But I wanted to learn the craft. When I saw Meeyan knitting one afternoon with her hands doing a tiptoe dance like those of a ballerina’s feet, I was enamored by such grace.
So there I was late at night trying to knit and shaming the women race. Then Mom came in the kitchen. I colored at the surprise on her face as she asked me why I was still awake.
Sheepishly I told her and regretted it when she burst out laughing. It was clear in her laughter that she thought I was being ridiculous. Yet, her eyes sparkled with something like pride.
Even simplicity, she said, needs to be defined.
She took the needle and the yarn (which both betrayed me and tripped my hands in their dancing) and showed me how to really knit. When she let me do it, I was still a hopeless case. Yet it only made her smile more.
At last, I got it right. The yarn was already in a splice, in a cleaner chain compared to the confused nest I made earlier.
Mom stood up and hinted that I keep practicing. Before she left, she told me, “Life is full of false starts and new beginnings, of failures before success, of tripping and falling. What matters is that you get up in every fall, learn in every mistake and never stop trying until you get it right. While there is room for mistakes, there is room for improvements and, just think, a house of learning.
My mother could have been a great teacher. I remember back when I was seven years old and still could not read. When she found out about it, she was so angry; she scared the hell out of me. Being a topnotcher herself in her youth, she was insulted.
I didn’t know how she did it but overnight she had turned me into a fluent reader. Uhm…okay, there were lots of spanking and pinching (my eyes still water at the thought of it). But it was worth it.
Perhaps I already had it in me but did not know it because I did not care. Why I did not care? Because I was not interested. And why? Because I thought I could never use it. All I cared about was playing. But my mother changed that. She opened one window by teaching me how to read, and lots of doors opened for me since then.
A sigh came out again…but this time of swelling pride and contentment. My thoughts went from the glaring eagle eyes of a hardened face that made me cower at mere sight…to eyes that shine with wisdom from a face gentled by years.
Mom, you’re simply the best, I thought. Then I went back to knitting.
Oops…there’s the mistake again!
I struggled for a while…then went on with my progress.
Contributed by: Sheryl Joy Olano
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Part of the Dream Weave Walk network
Showing posts with label Sheryl Joy P. Olano. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sheryl Joy P. Olano. Show all posts
Finding Little Heaven
The news came as a shock to us all. He who had been ill for days had been taken to the hospital. It was found out that he had very high amount of creatinine in his blood, resulting from a stone in one of his kidneys.
Creatinine is a liquid waste. It causes slow blood circulation, making even breathing difficult. While the normal amount of creatinine in our body is 1.5%, he had 23.3% of it.
He had assured us it was only a frustrating duo of ulcer and bronchitis so no one thought it was a kidney problem, which I only used to hear about from other people's sob stories but never thought would happen to my own flesh and blood- my father.
A tube was inserted into my father's body to start the perritonial dialysis. The nurse had warned it would be painful because the anesthesia would not reach the innermost part of his body. Still, I was shaken to hear his tortured scream as the nurse punctured his abdomen.
For days my father struggled with a tremble to move a muscle or to eat without vomiting the food out. He couldn't seem to swallow anything down his throat. My father…whom I neglected while others longed for a paternal presence in their homes…oh, how I had wronged him!
For the first time, my siblings and I showed how we truly felt, even humbling down to our knees to pray and beg God, in the midst of weeping and yes…running noses, to show us mercy. It was quite a scene…sure beats "Maalaala Mo Kaya".
Friends became out of reach, or perhaps it was me who was withdrawing from them. In their absence, strangers and people I hadn't heard for years came pouring in to help.
It took great effort to focus at work but like a puppet I moved on, not daring to disturb normalcy. Somehow I had kept myself from bawling for moping could not help my father.
Our prayers and (this will sound corny as hell) love have done wonders to my father although he still has to undergo hemodialysis. Now he could even make faces at us. Funny how he tries to make us smile in the face of grief.
My siblings and I have become closer than ever. And the realization that our parents had raised us well dawned in. In this hell we are going through, we've found a little heaven. Indeed I had a lot to thank God for. He had allowed us the pain that has shaken us to the core. But a pain meant to heal us spiritually and emotionally, a pain that has brought with it people we could count on. Sigh, God's mysterious ways!
Only now have I heeded to the good ol' saying romantics often chided to me: Always take the chance of showing that you care, for you never know when that chance would be taken away from you.
Thank God, I still have that chance
Contributed by:~Sheryl Joy P. Olano
Send in your articles for free publication
Part of the Dream Weave Walk network
Creatinine is a liquid waste. It causes slow blood circulation, making even breathing difficult. While the normal amount of creatinine in our body is 1.5%, he had 23.3% of it.
He had assured us it was only a frustrating duo of ulcer and bronchitis so no one thought it was a kidney problem, which I only used to hear about from other people's sob stories but never thought would happen to my own flesh and blood- my father.
A tube was inserted into my father's body to start the perritonial dialysis. The nurse had warned it would be painful because the anesthesia would not reach the innermost part of his body. Still, I was shaken to hear his tortured scream as the nurse punctured his abdomen.
For days my father struggled with a tremble to move a muscle or to eat without vomiting the food out. He couldn't seem to swallow anything down his throat. My father…whom I neglected while others longed for a paternal presence in their homes…oh, how I had wronged him!
For the first time, my siblings and I showed how we truly felt, even humbling down to our knees to pray and beg God, in the midst of weeping and yes…running noses, to show us mercy. It was quite a scene…sure beats "Maalaala Mo Kaya".
Friends became out of reach, or perhaps it was me who was withdrawing from them. In their absence, strangers and people I hadn't heard for years came pouring in to help.
It took great effort to focus at work but like a puppet I moved on, not daring to disturb normalcy. Somehow I had kept myself from bawling for moping could not help my father.
Our prayers and (this will sound corny as hell) love have done wonders to my father although he still has to undergo hemodialysis. Now he could even make faces at us. Funny how he tries to make us smile in the face of grief.
My siblings and I have become closer than ever. And the realization that our parents had raised us well dawned in. In this hell we are going through, we've found a little heaven. Indeed I had a lot to thank God for. He had allowed us the pain that has shaken us to the core. But a pain meant to heal us spiritually and emotionally, a pain that has brought with it people we could count on. Sigh, God's mysterious ways!
Only now have I heeded to the good ol' saying romantics often chided to me: Always take the chance of showing that you care, for you never know when that chance would be taken away from you.
Thank God, I still have that chance
Contributed by:~Sheryl Joy P. Olano
Send in your articles for free publication
Part of the Dream Weave Walk network
A day with Children
I had always thought I was a failure around kids. I feared I would either spoil them rotten or choke them to death. The first one was more probable though.
Then one day I was stuck into an outreach program where I was assigned to handle three kids. The first time I heard about it I was mortified…er…close to panicking to be exact. Instantly I imagined toddlers running around and ducking from my every grasp, pulling at my clothes and ruining my hair. My little sis gave me the phobia when she reached four and I was nine. (If she reads this she's going to kill me.)
Yet the havoc the little ones could cause was not really the problem. I feared they would hate me. What was I to do with them? I was never good at babysitting and most people thought I was too serious and boring.
Still I showed up at Family Park. A sense of responsibility made me. I could not resist it. I just hoped the lessons I learned in the Educational Psychology classes I took back in college would work.
When the banner was hung and chairs were positioned in the field, the children came bounding in. Children of different colors and sizes. Right away I spied two of them knocking down two chairs. I thought, oh boy, this would be one forgettable day.
Soon the children fell in line like cherubs as my colleagues and I handed them their nametags. I searched for my adopted kids Joely (age six), Jeimes (four) and Beam (14).
As I walked to and fro I saw this little slim, tan girl with long tresses and bangs watching me. Suddenly a little hand grabbed my shirtsleeve. It belonged to another little girl with shoulder-length hair.
She pulled me closer as she accused a grinning chubby boy of pushing her.
Somehow I got the boy to behave and pacified the girl with mere words, words that came out of nowhere. I then asked them if they knew Joely and they pointed at the girl with the bangs.
Getting along with Joely was easy. She was sweet and gentle. She even gave her mineral water to another girl who was thirsty. I was so proud of her I could not bear not to show it, and it was easy to tell she was pleased. Though she seemed to want to shy away out of embarrassment at my outright admiration, the flushing of her cheeks could not hide the fact that her eyes were dancing.
Unlike Joely, I had quite a hard time with Jeimes. I had to keep an eye on him and make sure he would not run off, which he managed to do every once in a while. I could not blame him. It was getting hotter by the minute. Other kids got restless too, and the demand for water was fast rising. I had to go up and down the stage for the supply.
Then there was Beam - a tight-lipped loner. He was taller than I, with a skin a hue darker than Joely's. I kept encouraging him to join the games so he would not get bored and be another runaway Jeimes.
I was surprised I was having fun with the sack race though my only role was to scream. And yes, there was the job of picking up a kid or two at every stumble. I had to hold their IDs and nametags so they could move freely and enjoy the game without being distracted.
Jeimes shunned away from me even at lunchtime. I thought he would grow up as a man with his own mind. I told him to roam around and help me find Beam. Instead, he stayed put. Reverse Psychology…of course! I eventually won the cute one over.
Beam, on the other hand, would lower his head every time I would speak to him. He was, however, a gentleman. He helped in carrying boxes of Zesto and other stuff.
All of a sudden I became everybody's sis. Kids took turns in pulling me to their side. They huddled close to me and they didn't even touch my hair! They would lean to me and ask me questions such as what grade I was in (kids don't know much about high school and especially college).
I answered that I was already working. Joely looked shocked. To make sure I was telling the truth she asked me if I finished grade one, grade two...and so on. When another kid declared that I would soon get married, Joely verified it to me again with sullen expression on her face. I couldn't help but laugh. I was in Pluto where marriage is concerned.
Then came Jollibee and the angels around me, who were hanging on my every word, morphed into mobsters. I had to help my fellows keep the kids at bay. They were murdering the poor mascot. It was a nightmare on Jollibee's poor butt. Only when he had gone back to his truck did the kids become human at last. They asked me if Jollibee was a man and not really a mutated oversized bee that could dance. I looked at their expectant faces, and replied in a manner they could understand, laugh at, yet always remember. I told them that Jollibee was also human and that he could also get hurt. Kamo bay tabangag sumbag di ba mo mabun-og, I told them. If you were the one being punched to death, wouldn't you be all black and blue? They laughed, but their faces gentled with a new light.
I actually enjoyed being with the kids. I got lots of hugs. I never felt so alive and so young for such a long time.
Before leaving, Joely asked if she would see me again. I told her yes, if she would be a good girl and that, she promised. She gave me a great big hug though she only managed to wrap her hands around my waist. But this she told me: Ate She, you're a very good person. I wish you were my sister.
Does a six-year-old lie? I wondered. Why did I ever say I hate kids? Perhaps it was because I was scared of the responsibilities and commitment but then, I'm no longer a nine-year-old.
Contributed by: Sheryl Joy Olano
Then one day I was stuck into an outreach program where I was assigned to handle three kids. The first time I heard about it I was mortified…er…close to panicking to be exact. Instantly I imagined toddlers running around and ducking from my every grasp, pulling at my clothes and ruining my hair. My little sis gave me the phobia when she reached four and I was nine. (If she reads this she's going to kill me.)
Yet the havoc the little ones could cause was not really the problem. I feared they would hate me. What was I to do with them? I was never good at babysitting and most people thought I was too serious and boring.
Still I showed up at Family Park. A sense of responsibility made me. I could not resist it. I just hoped the lessons I learned in the Educational Psychology classes I took back in college would work.
When the banner was hung and chairs were positioned in the field, the children came bounding in. Children of different colors and sizes. Right away I spied two of them knocking down two chairs. I thought, oh boy, this would be one forgettable day.
Soon the children fell in line like cherubs as my colleagues and I handed them their nametags. I searched for my adopted kids Joely (age six), Jeimes (four) and Beam (14).
As I walked to and fro I saw this little slim, tan girl with long tresses and bangs watching me. Suddenly a little hand grabbed my shirtsleeve. It belonged to another little girl with shoulder-length hair.
She pulled me closer as she accused a grinning chubby boy of pushing her.
Somehow I got the boy to behave and pacified the girl with mere words, words that came out of nowhere. I then asked them if they knew Joely and they pointed at the girl with the bangs.
Getting along with Joely was easy. She was sweet and gentle. She even gave her mineral water to another girl who was thirsty. I was so proud of her I could not bear not to show it, and it was easy to tell she was pleased. Though she seemed to want to shy away out of embarrassment at my outright admiration, the flushing of her cheeks could not hide the fact that her eyes were dancing.
Unlike Joely, I had quite a hard time with Jeimes. I had to keep an eye on him and make sure he would not run off, which he managed to do every once in a while. I could not blame him. It was getting hotter by the minute. Other kids got restless too, and the demand for water was fast rising. I had to go up and down the stage for the supply.
Then there was Beam - a tight-lipped loner. He was taller than I, with a skin a hue darker than Joely's. I kept encouraging him to join the games so he would not get bored and be another runaway Jeimes.
I was surprised I was having fun with the sack race though my only role was to scream. And yes, there was the job of picking up a kid or two at every stumble. I had to hold their IDs and nametags so they could move freely and enjoy the game without being distracted.
Jeimes shunned away from me even at lunchtime. I thought he would grow up as a man with his own mind. I told him to roam around and help me find Beam. Instead, he stayed put. Reverse Psychology…of course! I eventually won the cute one over.
Beam, on the other hand, would lower his head every time I would speak to him. He was, however, a gentleman. He helped in carrying boxes of Zesto and other stuff.
All of a sudden I became everybody's sis. Kids took turns in pulling me to their side. They huddled close to me and they didn't even touch my hair! They would lean to me and ask me questions such as what grade I was in (kids don't know much about high school and especially college).
I answered that I was already working. Joely looked shocked. To make sure I was telling the truth she asked me if I finished grade one, grade two...and so on. When another kid declared that I would soon get married, Joely verified it to me again with sullen expression on her face. I couldn't help but laugh. I was in Pluto where marriage is concerned.
Then came Jollibee and the angels around me, who were hanging on my every word, morphed into mobsters. I had to help my fellows keep the kids at bay. They were murdering the poor mascot. It was a nightmare on Jollibee's poor butt. Only when he had gone back to his truck did the kids become human at last. They asked me if Jollibee was a man and not really a mutated oversized bee that could dance. I looked at their expectant faces, and replied in a manner they could understand, laugh at, yet always remember. I told them that Jollibee was also human and that he could also get hurt. Kamo bay tabangag sumbag di ba mo mabun-og, I told them. If you were the one being punched to death, wouldn't you be all black and blue? They laughed, but their faces gentled with a new light.
I actually enjoyed being with the kids. I got lots of hugs. I never felt so alive and so young for such a long time.
Before leaving, Joely asked if she would see me again. I told her yes, if she would be a good girl and that, she promised. She gave me a great big hug though she only managed to wrap her hands around my waist. But this she told me: Ate She, you're a very good person. I wish you were my sister.
Does a six-year-old lie? I wondered. Why did I ever say I hate kids? Perhaps it was because I was scared of the responsibilities and commitment but then, I'm no longer a nine-year-old.
Contributed by: Sheryl Joy Olano
Caring in My Sister's Way
Last summer, I had an acute case of bronchitis. I was downright bummed. Summer for me meant sun, sand, sea…a gazillion trips to the mall or to my friends’ houses, or to another province. I was supposed to exhaust every excess fat on my calves, thighs and belly to hours and hours of fun. Instead I was stuck in the house, stuck with bronchitis.
I didn’t have a night’s worth of sleep since my cough attacks chose to antagonize the peaceful slumber of the entire household.
My sister, a sub-zero in the sensitivity department, would grumble about people not having enough sleep and that I should take dear old doggie’s job.
I wanted to cut off her oxygen supply. Bummer. I didn’t even have the voice to put her to place, only an ancient queen’s glare which, unfortunately, didn’t work.
Thank God for the good doctor. The expensive medicine he prescribed made its worth and soon my bout with bronchitis was over…sadly, so did summer.
Once again my lungs were pumped up for cleaning duty. While doing my room, I accidentally nudged a notebook from my cluttered desk (sis was always a human tornado). I recognized the all too familiar carefree scribbles revealing a prayer for me to be well again because it hurt seeing me suffer like that.
A tear dropped from my eyes- okay, okay. So the Niagara was in town. Who would know the brat felt that way about me? She, who had lived to contradict me, who had continuously stretched my patience to the limit. It was like she had grown a new head. The little weirdo was so beyond me. But this I finally know- my sis does care about me.
She had done the sweetest thing in my life without letting me know it. She could have rubbed it to my face and proclaimed it to the world to make me look like an ungrateful beast. But she didn’t do any of those things.
Sometimes, the most unthinkable of persons turn out to be the ones who truly care for us. They just find it awkward to be obvious. They don’t need an audience to boost their ego because their kindness is not for show. They are merely content that we are well.
Most of the time, we judge people by the way they treat us and by how they make us feel. We don’t bother to dig dipper, to skim below the surface of Jack or Jill. We never can know what is hidden in the flesh because we see only what our eyes expect to see, because we see only what they want us to see.
To little sis who would bet a week’s allowance to hear me say, thank you. You may get goose bumps as I am getting while writing this, but it comes from my heart.
Contributed by:~Sheryl Joy P. Olano
I didn’t have a night’s worth of sleep since my cough attacks chose to antagonize the peaceful slumber of the entire household.
My sister, a sub-zero in the sensitivity department, would grumble about people not having enough sleep and that I should take dear old doggie’s job.
I wanted to cut off her oxygen supply. Bummer. I didn’t even have the voice to put her to place, only an ancient queen’s glare which, unfortunately, didn’t work.
Thank God for the good doctor. The expensive medicine he prescribed made its worth and soon my bout with bronchitis was over…sadly, so did summer.
Once again my lungs were pumped up for cleaning duty. While doing my room, I accidentally nudged a notebook from my cluttered desk (sis was always a human tornado). I recognized the all too familiar carefree scribbles revealing a prayer for me to be well again because it hurt seeing me suffer like that.
A tear dropped from my eyes- okay, okay. So the Niagara was in town. Who would know the brat felt that way about me? She, who had lived to contradict me, who had continuously stretched my patience to the limit. It was like she had grown a new head. The little weirdo was so beyond me. But this I finally know- my sis does care about me.
She had done the sweetest thing in my life without letting me know it. She could have rubbed it to my face and proclaimed it to the world to make me look like an ungrateful beast. But she didn’t do any of those things.
Sometimes, the most unthinkable of persons turn out to be the ones who truly care for us. They just find it awkward to be obvious. They don’t need an audience to boost their ego because their kindness is not for show. They are merely content that we are well.
Most of the time, we judge people by the way they treat us and by how they make us feel. We don’t bother to dig dipper, to skim below the surface of Jack or Jill. We never can know what is hidden in the flesh because we see only what our eyes expect to see, because we see only what they want us to see.
To little sis who would bet a week’s allowance to hear me say, thank you. You may get goose bumps as I am getting while writing this, but it comes from my heart.
Contributed by:~Sheryl Joy P. Olano
Feline Courage
Have you ever experienced one of those rare strange times when things just go way beyond normal?
You learn things from cats....
Fangs. Killer claws. Hisses, grrrs...and later, yelps. Who is not familiar with cat-dog combats? It's a "hair-raising" party of limbs and tails and yes, the loser sheds most of the fur- mostly, the cat.
It was night time and I was in the living room reading a tear-jerker when I heard a throaty, prolonged and wavering wail. Instantly I dropped the book and rushed to the door with one thought in mind - my cat was under attack. The thought brought an ugly picture to my head. I feared an on-the-prowl Sparky or a hyperactive Caesar or worse, the Big Dogs on the Block (BDOB a.k.a. askal) was circling my Khufu in anticipation of tearing her apart.
So you could just imagine the shock on my face when I caught Khufu chasing Sparky, a dog two times her size. A dog. My cat just chased a dog. I thought it only happens on TV.
"You were supposed to be helpless," I scolded Khufu but actually I was torn between being proud of the cat and being afraid of it as it sat on its hind, licking its paws...Sparky completely forgotten.
But then my memory bank had retrieved from its archives a plausible explanation about what had transpired in the scene of crime. Said dog seemed to have a phobia with cats for once upon a time it received a blow from a cat's paw on the head. So I thought my cat was just plain lucky. Sparky would avert from anything that meows.
But then another weird night came and dogs were running for their tails. The militant cat had struck again.
Dogs. Not one, but two. Dogs- definitely not puppies. One was Caesar and the other was a BDOB- both bigger than Sparky. I was impressed.
Perhaps it would happen again, perhaps not. But I wouldn't want my feline friend to make it a hobby or she'll drive all the dogs away.
Here's the norm: cats are to be chased by dogs. The poor cat must have gotten tired of running for her life that she decided to make a brave yet an unthinkable move to alter cat life in our dog-infested neighborhood.
It seems she has gathered up her tattered pride and charge, come what may, to make a statement in the name of the feline race. The statement would be: We cats may be soft, but we are not fragile.
How easy it is for us to run away from our fears or to give in to the unfairness of the bullies to avert the hassles and side effects of battle, having known not the possible victories we could achieve...dreams stay as mere dreams.
But fear is fear. If only we could just throw it out of the window and have it locked out from our minds. But fear is a part of our existence. It is a psychological battle, a tug-of-war between yes and no. For me, it is not something we bulldoze in a day. I remember how my cat used to sacrifice her food to the dogs and be rooted indoors. It took her time to gain the courage to go against the norm we thought could never be changed.
Perhaps the passport to courage is to be sure of who we are, to believe, to act big no matter how small, like the cat that fought for its claim of territory and demand for respect with a personlity bigger than a dog.
We all have our own dogs to chase to turn our "impossible" into a badge we can proudly wear. As for me, I'm not done with mine yet.
Contributed by: Sheryl Joy P. Olano
You learn things from cats....
Fangs. Killer claws. Hisses, grrrs...and later, yelps. Who is not familiar with cat-dog combats? It's a "hair-raising" party of limbs and tails and yes, the loser sheds most of the fur- mostly, the cat.
It was night time and I was in the living room reading a tear-jerker when I heard a throaty, prolonged and wavering wail. Instantly I dropped the book and rushed to the door with one thought in mind - my cat was under attack. The thought brought an ugly picture to my head. I feared an on-the-prowl Sparky or a hyperactive Caesar or worse, the Big Dogs on the Block (BDOB a.k.a. askal) was circling my Khufu in anticipation of tearing her apart.
So you could just imagine the shock on my face when I caught Khufu chasing Sparky, a dog two times her size. A dog. My cat just chased a dog. I thought it only happens on TV.
"You were supposed to be helpless," I scolded Khufu but actually I was torn between being proud of the cat and being afraid of it as it sat on its hind, licking its paws...Sparky completely forgotten.
But then my memory bank had retrieved from its archives a plausible explanation about what had transpired in the scene of crime. Said dog seemed to have a phobia with cats for once upon a time it received a blow from a cat's paw on the head. So I thought my cat was just plain lucky. Sparky would avert from anything that meows.
But then another weird night came and dogs were running for their tails. The militant cat had struck again.
Dogs. Not one, but two. Dogs- definitely not puppies. One was Caesar and the other was a BDOB- both bigger than Sparky. I was impressed.
Perhaps it would happen again, perhaps not. But I wouldn't want my feline friend to make it a hobby or she'll drive all the dogs away.
Here's the norm: cats are to be chased by dogs. The poor cat must have gotten tired of running for her life that she decided to make a brave yet an unthinkable move to alter cat life in our dog-infested neighborhood.
It seems she has gathered up her tattered pride and charge, come what may, to make a statement in the name of the feline race. The statement would be: We cats may be soft, but we are not fragile.
How easy it is for us to run away from our fears or to give in to the unfairness of the bullies to avert the hassles and side effects of battle, having known not the possible victories we could achieve...dreams stay as mere dreams.
But fear is fear. If only we could just throw it out of the window and have it locked out from our minds. But fear is a part of our existence. It is a psychological battle, a tug-of-war between yes and no. For me, it is not something we bulldoze in a day. I remember how my cat used to sacrifice her food to the dogs and be rooted indoors. It took her time to gain the courage to go against the norm we thought could never be changed.
Perhaps the passport to courage is to be sure of who we are, to believe, to act big no matter how small, like the cat that fought for its claim of territory and demand for respect with a personlity bigger than a dog.
We all have our own dogs to chase to turn our "impossible" into a badge we can proudly wear. As for me, I'm not done with mine yet.
Contributed by: Sheryl Joy P. Olano
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