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My aunt used to work in one of the country's former senators' house, and my sister and I would crash in during holidays. Years ago, every Easter, the owner hosted an egg-hunting event almost a hundred kids went to. It is the perfect place for an egg hunt; the lot is wide enough to be mistaken as a miniature football field, the backyard is an exaggeration of backyard and the architecture is something worthy of commendation from men like Adolf Loos and Aldo Rossi.
I won in those egg hunts twice and I brought home a chick and the most adorable guinea pig in the fauna scene. But I was neglectful and couldn't tell the difference between a hungry pet from a dying one. I left the guinea pig, whose name I so unfortunately lost in my aging memory bin that I shall resort to calling it Peach, in its cage outside our house. That evening it rained hard so sleep hit me harder on the head, and I completely forgot about my guinea pig's short-lived existence.
It was dead when I came to check on it the next morning. I tried crying to ease out my guilt for committing an unintended crime of animal cruelty but our relationship was cut short at the wrong time. I wish I had been more dedicated, though. Peach deserved a longer life and a less painful way to die.
This is for you, Peach. I'm dreadfully sorry and I hope the reason why I keep crossing highways safely is because you watch over me despite my nonexistent parenting skills.
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