Gone to Market

“This little piggy went to market; this little piggy stayed home…” Most of us have heard the rhyme. Usually accompanied by excited tiny squeals of delight when the final little piggy squeaks all the way home. A funny little poem, not one heard in all cultures, certainly not mine- yet it is an all too physical reminder of home. Growing up in rural Açores, it’s hard to imagine, but we kids could be seen running wild, unaccompanied by adults. A foreign thought to me now as I live in a metropolitan city all those years later. Yet, my childhood was much more liberating. Much of my young days were spent barefoot, the sensation of earth tickling my delicate infant feet with every little trudge; I can still feel that same thread of earth to skin. It takes a village- and I was certainly raised by one, so adored by my older siblings and neighbours I never truly had a care in the world. 

 

It was an average day, I kicked off my shoes—I never liked that restriction—and headed to my neighbours with my older brother. Being only two, I was often more of a toy, a ragdoll, than a child, so it was not unusual to be flung in the air or catapulted through the hallway in my wheeled baby walker to coax a good laugh out of me. All in good-natured fun, anything to make me giggle. This day was different, though. 

 

Pedro- my neighbour’s twelve-year-old son—and to me, the boy who strung the moon—thought it would be fun to take me on a joyride in his little, beat-up dirt bike, something he had done countless times before, with me on his lap. You may be horrified reading this, but remember, it was a different time, and we were uninhibited. I giddily reached out to him in pure joy- I loved going fast- and despite the proceeding events- I still do.  

 

He sat me on his lap and started the engine- one, two, three thrusts of the throttle, and we were off. The ride ended, and the merriment running through me was the same, but the horrified screams escaping his mother’s mouth were new. As Pedro turned toward his mother’s petrified shriek, that’s when he saw it, a trail of blood-my blood. As his eyes trailed toward the foot peg, it was then he saw the source—my foot. 

 

I don’t remember much of this incident, only what I’ve been told and my mother’s tear-stained face as she squeezed my hand so tight, I could feel nothing else, not even the doctor’s poking and prodding. “Mama, não se chora, eu estou bem [Mama, don’t cry, I’m alright]” my tiny voice assured as I wiped her tears with my blankie. An act etched in her mind, the wherewithal of a child’s mind to comfort a parent with their prized possession at a time of crisis, left her both baffled and comforted. That’s the only real memory I have, I can’t even recall what my foot looked like before the accident, but now I have three left toes, a partially amputated index toe, and a missing hallux— or big toe.  

 

I recall hearing that rhyme sometime after coming to Canada, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of the first little piggy going to market, seeing as mine is gone. It’s funny, isn’t it? By all accounts a traumatic event, yet I can’t help but smile whenever I look down. As strange as it sounds, I think of home because in a strange way, it was like leaving a piece of me behind. A physical reminder of where I came from. So, I’m not missing anything, nor am I incomplete; it's just that this little piggy went to market and found home.