This
morning, an old woman from the outside called us. When I opened the door,
I saw her palms open at the gate. She then started begging for just a
small pack of rice and a spoonful of pity. She did not specify the quantity
she needed but I could see in her eyes that she would accept even a handful of it.
She touched my heart. She was not from our subdivision I could
tell. She was wearing black shirt with prints on it, pedal pants,
sandals, and a weary smile. She was carrying a recyclable bag and a sack
of experiences that were marked in the lines of her face. I had thought
for a while and asked myself of the questions I would have asked her, “Asa imong mga anak la?” “Asa ka gapuyo?”
but I was not able to speak and the thoughts went on, “Naa kaha ni siya’y ginapakaon? Perhaps apo.” “Siya na lang kaya isa?”
“Paano kaya niya nakaya na maglakaw unya mangayo ug bugas? nagkasubo jud siguro
ni siya…” then I stopped and faced the reality.
Even
having my sincerest thought to help, I still was not able to because I was
bound to follow my limitations. I could not just give something to anyone
not unless we ourselves (family) have enough resources and not without the
permission of the ones who pay for it—my parents. I said my most genuine
sorry and she just nodded and smiled halfway as she backed out and walked away
from our gate. That smile doubled my pity, stabbed me, and made me write.
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