It was Sunday. Molave Street was bright with the noontime sun. The doors of the neighborhood homes were wide open, letting the wind sweep through the insides. The sound of laughter echoed with the beeps of cars passing by, and children fearlessly running beside the curve of the road, untouched by the weight of the world, unburdened by worries of an adult.
I could hear them from where I sat, separated only by the blurry plastic screen of the sari-sari store I was keeping watch over. Occasional murmurs slipped in but were never understood.
The silence on my side and the joy of the other felt uncomfortable. The noise felt so far away despite the short distance, like I was only meant to listen. Envy lingered in my mind for a moment before vanishing as the first customer of the day approached.
“Unsay ato angkol?” I gave a practiced, amiable smile.
It was Friday. She said we were going somewhere nice and that I had to wear my best clothes. I stared at the pile of clothes on the floor, looking like a mountain of rags, and settled on one. I guess a hand-me-down faded red dress with fewer patches could work as one. It smelled like old, wet paper, but I have never worn it. I never knew I was allowed to wear a dress.
“Inig abot nato didto dapat mag binuotan ka,” she said as she fixed my collar. It was folded inside.
“Opo,” I said like an automatic response, staring at her. There was a curve on her lips I had never seen. Or maybe never directed at me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed easily. Maybe I should have asked questions. But she smiled at me after years of scowls and frowns, and disgusted scoffs.
“Dili mag tinamad kay wala ka sa balay,” she added. She patted my head twice, and I felt like I was in the clouds.
“Opo, mamang,” I promised her, as if I understood what her words meant.
Maybe I should have told her no. Maybe I shouldn’t have promised her. But her hand gently patted my head after years of pulling my hair, hitting me with a stick, or hauling me inside the sack.
We walked for an hour, or more. I didn’t know. I was focused on her hand holding mine as she hummed a few familiar tones. She used to sing these tones to my cousin to lull her to sleep. Maybe she was in a really good mood today. I hummed and hopped a little as I walked beside her.
“Mao na ni siya?”
It was a lady with short hair wearing a red dress. She looked mean, with her plump body leaning against the blue couch. Her eyes stayed with me, heated and prickly. I shifted in my seat, a little scared of her eyes and the nails that repeatedly hit the soft fabric of the seat. I felt my skin throb.
“Oo, Ern, bright ni kabalo na mag compute compute.”
“Maayo kay mapuslan siya diri sa tindahan. Maayo jud ka magpadako Intong,”
I couldn’t pinpoint when exactly the conversation ended. I saw my grandmother stand up, walk closer to the lady to whisper something, and they both laughed. Her hand coiled around my thin arm and pushed me towards the lady. I looked back at her, wondering.
She looked at me with a wide grin, like she was very satisfied. “Mubalik ra ko.”
She smiled at me. She patted my head. She held me. It was so warm. It was a great day.
At eight, I held on to those words like an anchor keeping a ship in place. She said she would come back for me. And for the first time, I believed her.
Arianne Cabaro grew up in ARMM but transferred to North Cotabato. She graduated from the University of Southeastern Philippines with a degree in Literature and Cultural Studies. She currently works in a publishing house in Quezon City.