Since I am not a poem writer, the ode in the title refers to composition, not sonnet or rhyme.
Last night, Ms. Eleven Minutes accompanied me to the police station to file a report. With her experience in dealing with such matters, among many others, I value her giving time, effort and much appreciated moral support.
While the officer-in-charge was interviewing me, with Ms. 11 Minutes coaching and reminding me of some details, Police Officer Gonzales blurted, “Is she your mom?” Of course, I answered in the negative. That incident immediately slipped my mind because the striking thing that lingered in my memory about that visit to the station was the overpowering smell of fried fish that permeated the entire place. I could barely keep the nausea at bay, being hypersensitive to the smell of fried food.
It was the next day when I found out the grief the officer’s query brought to Ms. 11 Minutes. Upon arriving home, she drowned her sorrows in alcohol, garlic prawns and chicharon bulaklak with her friend. Her father, before retiring for the night, said to wake him up when somebody needed to be brought to the hospital.
True enough, early morning found them bringing Ms. 11 Minutes to the emergency room due to hypertension. When I called her up in the office, she related how, when she heard the officer’s query if she were my mom, she wanted to run amuck right then and there. But she struggled to maintain her composure and dignity. But she lost in her struggle with fatty food.
And so, I owe her big time. The amount of which cannot be covered by 5,000 bucks worth of freebies… I will try to make it up to her some way, someday.