The backpack

By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

HE used to talk a lot even before the mass begins, annoying those seated beside him. There is an eagerness to his existence, always ready to give an opinion over the “kilometric” homily, the waste of words in litany and the impropriety of “pekpek” shorts worn during mass. But he recites, “Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world” with closed eyes and total piety. He can sing all the church songs which I can only mumble, even when lacking in melody.

And then he changed. He prefers to stay away from prolonged conversation, and would rather step inside a church and converse with the image of Virgin Mary or Jesus Christ. When asked, he responds in monosyllabic words. Yes. No. Yes. No. He carries a worn-out backpack on his right shoulder, which makes him walk with his shoulder appearing weighed down on one side. His burden seems to be encased in that backpack, as he walks, looking up at times, but mostly fixing his gaze on the ground. Perhaps afraid to trip into a pebble, or a dog shit. But maybe not, having seen him step on a pile of dung, unconsciously.

I wonder what’s inside his mind, but since he rarely looks up, I cannot look at his eyes, which I suppose, is the window to his soul. I saw him kneel in prayer. Then he sits and opens his backpack and takes some things and lays tem on the pew: a notebook, pieces of paper, a bottle of water, crackers. He was about to bring out something heavy but changed his mind. Instead, he slid his hands carefully, and caressed whatever was inside. Then he makes the sign of the cross, and carefully loads all the items back in the backpack. On his way out, I catch a glimpse of his full face, and his dry smile.

I remember a friend who used to walk on her knees in Quiapo Church to ask God to ease her “trouble” with her philandering husband, and repeatedly did so for years. Her knees had blisters for five years, but she never really let God carry her burden. She carried her troubles back home, along with the spare candles and written petitions, in her all-purpose handbag. I wonder if he is doing the same. I wonder if he carries his burden in his backpack.

I decided to follow him to see where he goes, but the afternoon sun blinded my eyes. I could see him disappearing among the silhouette of trees, until his presence was swallowed by the blinding light.

On Sunday, another Sunday, I might get lucky to speak to him, and give him a new backpack. He reminds me of grief, of something unforgiven, something in between desperation and hope. I could almost touch it, taste it, feel it, eating my own bones. It is as if the church, once providing anchor to his very existence, has become an empty shell, able only to echo his excruciating pain.

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