On my way back from school, with the sun dipping low on the horizon and the faint evening breeze teasing my skin, I found myself near in my boarding house.
Just as I was about to pass a small grocery store on the corner, it hit me—I needed to buy shampoo.
My steps faltered as I fumbled through my pocket, feeling the lone 100-peso bill.
Tomorrow, I had to contribute to our major’s cooking activity, and I knew this meager amount wasn’t going to stretch far.
I paused outside the store, debating with myself.
"Maybe if I don’t take a tricycle tomorrow morning," I thought.
"I could wake up earlier, walk to school instead, and save the fare. That way, I’d still have enough left for lunch... plus, a little morning exercise wouldn’t hurt."
With a sigh, I stepped inside the grocery.
The scent of the aisles—instant noodles, canned goods, and soap—washed over me as I maneuvered through the narrow spaces.
There were only a handful of us inside, seven maybe, the store's usual quiet now amplified because a bigger mall had recently opened nearby.
People had options now, and this little corner shop wasn’t one of them anymore.
I hurried to the personal care section and picked out a one sachet of shampoo and conditioner.
As I turned to leave, my eyes landed on something familiar—Milo.
"Ah," I muttered to myself,
"if only they had stocked this yesterday."
I could’ve grabbed it then.
But today? No chance. My budget was already stretched thin.
"Next time," I whispered with a soft chuckle.
I joined the checkout line, feeling slightly embarrassed as I looked at the other customers.
They all carried baskets overflowing with items, while I clutched just two small sachet.
"Soon," I whispered to myself, "by God's grace, I’ll have more than just these. Patience."
As I stood there, my gaze drifted to an older man just ahead of me.
He was hunched slightly, holding two bottles of juice.
His clothes—an old black jacket and faded blue jogging pants—looked worn from the day’s labor, with mud clinging to his slippers.
His tired eyes darted around the shelves as though searching for something.
I noticed the 50 pesos he held in his hand, crumpled and worn, much like the man himself.
I watched as his gaze landed on a shelf to his right, his eyes locking on a familiar brand—Rexona.
He hesitated, his fingers brushing the product.
After a moment, he picked up two sticks but stood frozen, as if wrestling with the numbers in his head.
The sight tugged at my heartstrings, a familiar ache spreading through me.
He reminded me so much of Papa.
I could almost see Papa standing there, his weathered hands making similar choices, weighing needs against the little he had.
The man shuffled forward, finally placing one Rexona stick back on the shelf.
His movement was slow, reluctant.
When he reached the cashier, he handed over only one deodorant stick and his two bottles of juice.
I could see the weariness in his every gesture, the quiet resignation on his face as if life had conditioned him to accept that he couldn’t always afford the small luxuries.
Before I even realized it, my hand was reaching into my bag, fingers brushing against my wallet.
I wanted to help, to buy the second Rexona for him.
But before I could act, the man was already heading out the door, vanishing into the fading twilight.
I opened my mouth to call after him, but the cashier had already begun ringing up my items, grounding me back to the present.
By the time I had paid and rushed outside, he was gone.
I scanned the street, hoping for just a glimpse of him, but there was nothing—only the soft hum of passing tricycles and the fading noise of the market stalls.
As I walked back to the boarding house, a heavy sadness settled over me.
Tears welled up in my eyes, spilling over without warning, as memories of Papa came rushing in.
It had been seven years, seven long years since he left, but the pain of losing him never really faded.
It lingered like a shadow in the corners of my heart, quiet but ever-present.
How I wished he could be here.
I longed to talk to him, to share the little triumphs and struggles of my everyday life, to hear his advice once again.
There was so much I wanted to tell him—how I tried to follow his words, how I missed his laughter and his quiet strength.
But life doesn’t grant us those second chances, does it?
I wiped away the tears, but they kept falling.
Each step toward the boarding house felt heavier than the last.
My chest ached, a deep longing that words couldn’t quite capture.
How could it feel like just yesterday, the day I lost him?
Yet here I was, still trying to accept it after all these years.
I trust that God has a reason for everything. I always have.
But in moments like these, when the grief feels raw and fresh, I can’t help but wonder why Papa had to leave so soon.
Why was I left without him when I still needed him so much?
Still, despite my questions, I feel God’s presence, His love wrapping around me like a warm embrace.
It’s in these moments of sorrow that I feel His strength the most.
Even though Papa is gone, I am not alone.
God is here, reminding me that His love fills the void in ways I cannot always see or understand.
As I reached my room, I whispered a prayer, thanking God for the strength He gives me in these quiet, painful moments.
I don’t know why Papa was taken from me so early, but I trust that there is a purpose.
Maybe one day, I’ll find that answer.
For now, I’ll carry Papa’s memory in my heart, knowing that every step I take is one that brings me closer to understanding—one that brings me closer to healing.
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Non-FictionLife often presents itself as a series of hurdles, each one taller than the last. These hurdles, though daunting, are not meant to break us but to shape us into who we are meant to be. It is through our darkest nights that we gain the strength to fa...
