​The Quiapo Mother

She enters the jeep with the strength Mothers inexplicably have, not because they want to but they have to — on her arms and hands she carries several weights, her shoulder bag of personal knick-knacks, the larger bag still only carried on sore shoulders full of what looked to be groceries, and sitting on her lap was a disgruntled crying child. The child cries out with such incomprehensible emotion and reason, but there was no flowing tears or puffy reddened eyes or sniffling breaths, she simply screams in agonized tones.

Was there something chasing her? Was she hurt? Was the mother to blame? Its hard to say anything about it, I can’t bring any answer to it because nothing adds up; I was a mere passenger of this Jeep.

The look of the mother was strong, too strong, full of a hundred thousand emotional weights that even a shared glance brought me down to the ocean floor, my heart ached like tectonic movements as I saw the scene before me. The child moved erratically between hoarse shrill screeches as if possessed but in her hands was a plastic blue rosary still sealed in its packaging. Her hands in profound strength, calloused and wrinkled, held the child in delicate firmness and without an ounce of contempt to the confused cries to her child.

From her deep and sullen gaze from me to the outside to some other passenger — she worries if she causes ruckus and concern — but do not worry, I and other passengers cannot muster strength to talk to you. We have no care, we are not creatures of empathy, we are alimango, crustaceans that hide in our shells and keep only to ourselves. Her second glance proved me wrong immediately, I was no mere alimango as I felt a hand clutch my already breathless and pained heart, the hand of pity.

You were wronged, that was clear to tell, brought to bear this cursed child you so clearly love, resting carelessly and quietly on your breast as if she did not bring the rest of us to uncomfortable silence. You walk along Quiapo to Recto carrying this profound weight, heavier than the material positions you flee with on your shoulders, I can sense it in the air as the scene grew peaceful with wind blowing rapidly from the open windows. The weight I felt sinking my heart was only a modicum to the emotional burden you carry on your back.

After you depart, dropping yourselves in Altura to continue your journey home or that is what I want to believe. The mother, You pitiful woman, I hope and pray you bring your daughter a brighter future to behold. A future unlike yours, carrying the weight of the world and her inconsolable child.

After an hour or so I will come to forget your existence, I want to forget, but that is an impossible task to achieve. By the time you glanced at me with that deep expression the third time, I couldn’t help but write, permanently cementing you in history.

I am sorry.