And so began the torment of my elementary school days, each one filled with long, dull hours of classes that seemed to stretch on endlessly. My attention would often drift, my mind wandering far from the lessons being taught. The teachers quickly noticed my disinterest, and though they tried to spark my enthusiasm, I remained apathetic. Rather than force me to sit through the endless monotony, they allowed me a unique freedom: every afternoon, I was given a few hours to study whatever I wanted.
School days in our small town were long, stretching from 7:30 in the morning until 4:30 in the afternoon, leaving me with a precious four-hour block of time to explore subjects of my own choosing. The school promised to provide whatever resources it could, and in return, I dove headfirst into a mix of music, advanced mathematics, languages, and sports.
I chose music because I felt it was a hobby worth pursuing. Knowing how to play an instrument felt like a gateway to creativity, and who wouldn't want to be able to serenade their friends or family? Languages were my second choice. I wanted to learn foreign tongues, not because I was surrounded by speakers of them, but because I had a sense that in the future, globalization and technology would make these boundaries irrelevant. And who wouldn't want the ability to communicate with people from around the world? Plus, traveling to places I'd never seen before seemed like a dream I would one day realize.
Advanced mathematics was my attempt to redeem my past weakness in the subject. I wasn't naturally inclined toward numbers, but I figured that mastering them could help me build a more stable future. Sports, on the other hand, was an attempt to make up for my previous lack of athleticism. I wasn't the most coordinated kid, but I figured that if I worked hard enough, I could at least excel in one area of physical fitness.
Beyond academics, I spent my spare time preparing for competitions that could help me earn money. It wasn't always easy to juggle everything, but I honed new skills each day, relentlessly pushing myself to improve. And with the last 30 minutes of my school day, I would spend time with the younger kids, who would often turn to me for guidance. Though, at times, it felt like I was babysitting, I grew to cherish those moments—laughing and creating memories with them and my family.
But that carefree existence came to a sudden halt, as an ominous shadow loomed on the horizon. The anniversary of my father's accident was fast approaching. I could never forget the day it happened. The details had been recounted a thousand times—on the news, in hushed conversations, and among those who were there. It was as if the accident had become a part of our collective history.
My father had been driving a truck loaded with heavy lumber—wood meant for constructing cottages at a resort he had been hired to work on as a carpenter. But the truck wasn't carrying just workers; a few teachers attending a seminar had decided to join the ride to save money on transportation. A decision that would soon prove to be a terrible mistake.
It was around 5 p.m. when the accident occurred. The driver, fatigued from the long journey, lost control of the truck. The vehicle veered off the road and collided with a massive tree. It was night, and many of the passengers had already fallen asleep, unable to brace themselves for the impact. As the truck overturned, the massive load of wood crashed into the passengers. Some woke in time to escape injury, but others were not so lucky. They were trapped, crushed under the weight of the heavy lumber. By the time help arrived, some had already passed away, and those who survived were left with grave injuries.
I was only six years old at the time, a first grader who was blissfully unaware of the world's dangers. I remember how we first learned of my father's accident—not through television, for we were poor and didn't own one, but through a message passed along by someone who had heard the news.
It was my grandmother who came to our house, her face grave as she informed my mother, "Cynthia, you need to prepare yourself. Arthur has been taken to the hospital. His hands were badly crushed by the wood, and he needs surgery."
"Is he okay?" my mother asked, panic rising in her voice.
"He's alive, thank God. His injuries are lighter than others. Some people weren't as fortunate. One man has lost his legs, and several others died on the spot."
The news hit us like a ton of bricks, and my mother immediately began to prepare, packing clothes for the trip. She took me to my father's sister's house, where I would stay while she went to the hospital.
Though I was just a child, my instincts told me something was wrong, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something even worse was about to happen. I wanted to change things, to stop the accident before it happened, but how could I convince anyone? They would think I was crazy. My parents were not the type to believe in omens or dreams, but I had to try.
The night before the accident, I had a vivid dream. I saw my father trapped in the truck, his hand crushed by the fallen wood. I saw my Aunt Isabel and Ma'am Celestine lying motionless, and even Uncle Fred had succumbed to his injuries at the hospital. The dream felt so real, I woke up in a cold sweat.
I told my father about the dream the next morning, hoping that somehow, it might make a difference.
"Pa, I dreamt about you last night," I said, my voice trembling. "It was scary."
"What happened?" my dad asked, concerned.
"There was an accident, and you were hurt. But others... they didn't make it," I replied, holding back tears. "Ma'am Celestine and Aunt Isabel died on the spot, and Uncle Fred didn't make it to the hospital. It was so real, Pa. It scared me."
My father shook his head. "That's not something to joke about, Carmela. Death isn't something we take lightly."
But little did I know, my grandmother overheard the entire conversation. Grandma Jovie was known for her deep superstitions, and when she heard what I said, she immediately took action. She went to Uncle Fred, who was in charge of the trip, and pleaded with him not to go, urging him that it was bad luck and a disaster was waiting to happen.
Uncle Fred, dismissing it as mere superstition, was initially resistant, but Grandma Jovie was persuasive. She threatened to go to her friend, the principal, and convince her to intervene. In the end, Uncle Fred reluctantly agreed, and they arranged for last-minute transportation, ensuring they would leave the next day.
On the day of the trip, the family building the resort had no choice but to travel with other teachers from a nearby school. They ignored the warning, and the accident occurred. However, this time, the outcome was different. While there were injuries, no one died. The teachers from the other school, who had listened to their instincts and stayed awake, were able to react and minimize the damage.
When the dust settled, the teachers came to me, grateful and amazed by the dream I had shared. "It was like a prophecy," one of them said. "We owe our lives to you, Carmela. You saved us."
Word of my "prediction" spread quickly, and I became something of a local legend. People even came to me asking for lottery numbers, but I declined. "I don't dream of such things," I told them, laughing nervously.
Soon, life returned to normal. The years passed, and the town moved on, but the memory of that fateful day stayed with me. I never asked for fame or recognition, but I had changed the course of events, saving my father and others in the process.
And so, as time went by, the days grew peaceful again. Yet, I always remembered that moment when everything could have gone wrong, and I realized that sometimes, just sometimes, there is more to dreams than we think.