JUMPING HIGHER
PICKED UP MAMA

I'm a bully too. Yesterday want to eat just have to sell pants first? If my pants are up, want to sell especially? Mr. Sharif is still looking at me. I grin like a donkey. Shame on yourself too, how can I feel?

"I'm sorry and want to go home, but I'm ashamed" I said slowly.

"Who's the same, your parents? Aren't you ashamed to have troubled their hearts and unsettled them?" said Mr. Sharif in flames.

"Who are they, sir?" many stupid.

"Yes, whose parents are you?"

"Oh, Mama," I murmured slowly.

"Where is your father, is there, right?"

"Divorce to Mama. Now there is Papa Step,” I explained.

“Just like, you have troubled their hearts. Now go home, kiss your mother's hand and beg for mercy. You sinned against him" Mr. Sharif advised me.

My eyes were wide, but I was ashamed to cry. Indian film kayak only wear tearful event. I tried to hold back the crying, but because it was held even snot that came out. Kukupret, huh! Like in bule movies if it fits sad scenes, not tears that come out, but snot. There is a difference between Hollywood and Bollywood. I just know now.

At seven in the morning I finished chatting with Mr. Sharif, he had no other activities other than taking care of the mosque in front of his house. Mr. Syarif's age is 70 years and lives a simple life from the pension he received. It is time to pursue the afterlife, he told me before we both left the house. Mr. Sharif drove me to the side of the road in front of the mosque.

"Take this," Sir Sharif slipped a hundred thousand pieces into my hand.

I was stunned to see the hand of Mr. Sharif who gave money.

"No, Sir. Thank you, I have a fare to take the public transportation," I refused the gift.

Just as Mr. Sharif and I reached the courtyard of the mosque, a metallic blue city car stopped by the side of the road, near the gate. How do you feel like your car? I'm taking it seriously. Until my eyes narrowed so seriously. Kebat-kebit. Don't-don't, don't-don't .. (similar to soap opera dialogue with mangap mouth acting and eyebrows up and down) I looked at the car that stopped it. Mom got off with Mediana. Yheng! I'm surprised, Mr. Sharif is not surprised. He didn't know it was my mom. If he knows maybe Mr. Sharif followed jreng! Fainted too. Ahbayy ... Lebaayyy!

Mama rushed into the courtyard of the mosque, followed by Mediana from behind. I glanced at Mr. Sharif and he glanced back at me, as if asking who came, maybe he did not have a brother like this. Mediana is cute, my mama is also cute, somehow I did not inherit my mama's kecakepan. Lho?!

"Bono?!" my mother ran towards me.

"Who is he, son?" ask Mr. Syarif bengong.

"My mom, sir."

I could see Mr. Sharif mangosteen with a smile. Mama approached and I glanced at Mr. Sharif. He hinted with his eyes that I should kiss my mother's hand as he had said at breakfast. That I have sinned against my mother for running away from home.

"Go home, son," said the sad mother.

It was cold to hear my mother call me son because she had used her patent as a mother to call her flesh and bone. My eyes are spread, real not fake crying because of eye drops like the soap star. I'm really moved.

"I'm sorry Bono, Ma," I said, kissing my mother's hand.

"The wrong mom" she hugged me.

"Well, now go home. Your future is still long, remember the message of the Father?" Mr. Sharif smiled at me.

"It's better to have a broken heart than a broken leg" I'm sure.

Mr. Sharif laughed, Mama and Mediana also laughed. Then I introduced my mother to Mr. Sharif, the good-natured Nazir Masjid. Mama thanked me and promised to continue to connect friendship with Mr. Syarif's family. Just like I was, when my mother wanted to give money as a sign of gratitude to Mr. Sharif, he also refused. Maybe he also realized there were no Dutch-like, except his skin white, but his nose was clogged. The point is that Mr. Sharif does not want his kindness to be valued with money.