So much to lose

It was the Sunday my mother and I decided to walk two blocks to the Jollibee close to the church for our association's annual awarding ceremony for honor students, when I felt unfamiliar fingers slowly close around my earlobes.

Everything happened in a split second, but the world felt the need to let me watch it unfold in slow motion: There was someone behind me. Was it someone I knew? Should I turn around to greet this friend? Then suddenly, a swift, forceful tug. Oh, God. My heart sank. We swiveled around to see a man in dark rags retreating as fast as he could with my earrings. I looked at my mom. She looked at me. We screamed. What do I scream? Do I scream for help? Who do I scream at?

"Magnanakaw!"

Then my mother grabbed by hand and ran. I wish I could tell you  that we chased the man down, or that we ran straight to a police officer to ask him to chase the man down. I wish I could tell you God struck him down with lightning. That would have made for a great story, but this is not a great story. We ran for fear the man might come back to grab her own earrings.

My heart was beating out of my chest as I tried to stifle the bleeding with paper napkins from Jollibee while my mom narrated to the association's officers what had happened. I lost my golden earrings, but there was so much more to lose. A man I didn't know had watched us walk down the sidewalk. He had been close enough to hear our conversation, close enough to reach out and grab us. And we could not do anything but scream and run. 

We had so much to lose.

We left Jollibee in my father's car with my award money, some kind words, an extra sundae, and a dozen sympathetic nods. I left Jollibee never trusting the streets again.