Gene passes down traits. Environment shapes traits. Which
one is the dominant one? No one knows the answer so obviously. Even after some
researchers show that both work side by side, still no one, so does the doer,
knows which one is dominant the most until they reveal the veil of life in a
really time-consuming journey. Timotti realizes it! Yet unpurposefully.
Born in Maine, a state that is called the most
peaceful one in New England, Timotti has, more than just enough, all the
criteria of being a with-happy-childhood child. It is Rose Taylor or Rose Nelson,
a San Antonio-descent woman, who delivered the baby Timotti 19 years back and
accompanied him during the age of looking for self-identity. Not to touch on
the old hurt of Timothy and his mother, his father, James Nelson, was died at
the right time the core family was on a vacation in Canada to celebrate the
Timithy’s entry to a vocational school.
Like other healthy, happy teenagers, Timotti spent
much time amongst his friends and families, if it was a weekend. He as well did
a lot of sports with neighbors. Yes, the neighborhood where he lived was so friendly,
which means all people mostly knew each other and held a local party at times.
They did, really, in tens of times when it came to a long holiday. With seafood
cuisine or BBQ, they, which mostly come from Asia and Europe, ‘plunged’ into a
long conversation.
The time went by, so did Timotti and the people
surrounding him. Her mother, who suffered from a breast cancer since he was 15,
passed away after 2-month intensive treatment in Maine Medical Center, Cancer
institute. The young Timotti was the one who was deeply hurt by the incident.
Though some relatives asked him for staying with them, he decided to not go
with anyone there. Starting his first journey alone, Timotti migrated to San
Franscisco, California. Well, he believed that there had to be many things
there to erase the sadness of him after losing his lovely mother.
He was right, for a while. At the time, the thing
that he didn’t know was he actually went wrong. He tried to consume much
alcohol and get addicted to it. Not even satisfied with this kind of quite
heavy beverage, he started playing with drugs. For around a single year, he was
able to level up his seat from a drug user to a drug dealer. He seemed
successful in losing his sadness and something he never knew he had, traits.
From one state to another, Timotti moved on and on
just to ensure he was safe enough to hide from the policy’s eyes. He was safe,
but it was not something guaranteed. When he was just in New Mexico for some
days, a friend of him told that he was in a ‘wanted’ status. There was no
person who better understood that this time was going to happen than Timotti,
himself. But still, it did make him ready. He tried to trace the small paths
that were usually near to the borderline of two areas, just keep being far from
the crowds and of course the police.
Around the clock, Timotti wearing a worn-out black T-shirt,
a buttoned denim jacket, and a with-some-rips trouser was struggling to be unpaid
attention too, or also unseen if possible. What was going on later was out of
his expectation. In more than a half of New Mexico - San Antonio way, he got
sick. With all of the power left, he dared himself to knock the door of the
first house he found on the way.
It was a cottage, small but antique. The hardwood
flooring porch combined with a set of two rustic benches and a table, a rocking
chair, and lots of hanging potted plants and vines seemed like telling an old
person was just inside, sitting near the firewood and knitting or drinking a
cup of tea (It was spring, getting cold anytime).
One or two knocks were sounded, no person came. The
weakening Timotti was fainted. Two or three hours later, he opened his eyes and
found out himself lying on a bed. A bowl of chicken soup was just on the top of
a side bed cabinet. He was so thankful and looking for the one who treated him with
a really warm welcome like that way. He then went outside to the porch and sat
at one of the benches. From there, he was able to see around and enjoy the
small garden in front of the cottage. Not long after that, an old, healthy-looking
woman was walking towards him from the obsolete wooden fence to the
towards-porch stairs. She was smiling, and nothing could be done by Timotti
except to smile back at the person who might have treated me in the past hours.
He was right, at least for the this time. The old
woman was the one who owned the cottage, the one who helped him. Timotti and
the woman were joining a small talk at the porch. Until he questioned the name
of the woman. He politely asked, “Sorry for being rude, how should I call you,
Madame?”. With the warm gaze looking at Timotti, the woman answered him, “
People around here call me Rosa Taylor”.
This name made him push the true Timotti’s spirit to
get one important name back, his mother Rose Taylor, and to see the truth - what
was unseen so far. This freedom-like life was not what he was looking for. Not
to wait for a long time, the heathier Timotti moved the journey with the in-his-childhood
sounds of someone reverberating in his mind. This time, he was not again
walking through the rural, remote paths. He turned out his way to the city.
Right at the corner of the street where a building of a government-funded rehab
drug center, he stopped his way and came near the entrance door. Directly, he
dropped his two bags and passed by the street to somewhere.
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| Image credit: borderlessnewsandviews.com |
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