Magbubuko

By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

SHE called out from the street on her bike. I should have remembered her name, but I am not good at remembering names. I am good at remembering faces but did not recognize her with a black T-shirt wrapped around her face. I told her to maintain social distancing as I put my face mask. Sensing the doubt, she showed her face, drew out her Enhanced Community Quarantine (ECQ) pass and a photo of a man’s face inside the viewing glass of a coffin.

“Ate, patay na po asawa ko. Kami po yung magbubuko at dating umaakyat para kumuha ng malunggay ninyo.” (My husband died. We used to sell young coconuts and climbed to harvest your moringa.)

“Nakikiramay ako. Na-COVID ba? Teka, sandali, bigyan kita ng face mask. Bakit pala wala kang mask?” (My condolence. Was it COVID? Wait a minute, I’ll give you a face mask. Why don’t you have a mask?)

“Wala po kaming pambili, kaya lumang T-shirt po gamit namin, pati yung tatlong anak ko. Hindi po COVID, napulikat po siya habang umaakyat ng niyog at nahulog mismo sa harap ko. Mabuti na lang hindi siya tinamaan ng hawak niyang itak.” (We don’t have the money to buy masks so we are using old T-shirts, including my three kids. My husband did not die of COVID, his legs suffered cramps while climbing the coconut tree and he fell right in front of me. It was good that he was not hit by the bolo he was holding.)

She started to cry and showed me several photos of the wake. At this point, I took the relief goods given by the government and gave her some cash.

“Bumalik ka dito sa susunod na linggo, pag magbibigay pa ang gobyerno, ibigay ko lahat sa yo. Kasama face mask ng mga anak mo.” (Come back next week, if the government distributes more relief goods, I will give it all to you, including the face masks for your kids.)

“Tinanggal ko na po yung sidecar na nilalagyan naming ng buko kasi di na magagamit, itong bike na lang gamit ko papunta sa bahay kung saan ako namamasukan upang maglinis sa bakuran, dalawang beses isang linggo. Hindi po talaga magkasya para buhayin ko mga anak ko. Nagbigay po ang barangay naming ng dalawang kilong bigas at dalawang sardinas para sa quarantine, pero minsan lang.” (I removed the sidecar that we used for the young coconuts, we have no use for it now. I am using the bike to go to my place of work where I clean someone’s yard, twice a week. It is not enough to sustain my kids. The barangay gave us two kilos of rice and two sardines during the quarantine, just once.)

“Ha? Ang alam ko lahat sa Quezon City ay nabibigyan ng limang kilong bigas at sampung de lata. Saang barangay ka ba?” (What? I know that Quezon City gives five kilos of rice and ten canned goods. What area do you belong?)

“Sa UP ho. Sa Old Balara.” (At UP. In Old Balara).

She cried again. I could not hug her, as I normally do to comfort the bereaved, or even touch her hand to show empathy. I could not ask her inside the house to join me for breakfast. I cannot even offer her to work inside the house. So many things I could no longer do. The distance is appalling.

“Huwag ka ng umiyak. Bubuti rin ang kalagayan natin. Pag natapos ang COVID, ihanap kita ng trabaho.” (Don’t cry. Things will get better. After we survive COVID, I will find you a job.)

“Salamat po, Ate. Alis na po ako. Dalhin ko lang sa bahay ang mga ibinigay ninyo at ikot ulit po ako sa mga kilala ko.” (Thank you. I am leaving now. I will just bring home the items you gave, and move around some more to ask help from others I know.)

Her tears streamed on her sun-dried face as she put on the new mask, rolled her bike in the empty street, until the space swallowed even her shadow, a dim dot slowly fading in the heat and brightness of the sun that also concealed the existence of a thousand beautiful stars.

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