Vito Cruz to Edsa

She looks like a zombie. Lips chalk white and chipped. Sunken eyes. The folder she’s holding opens to a picture of her child. The loose, dirty, cloth bag on her shoulders smells of vomit. Her litany begins, “pandagdag lang po sa ospital, salamat po sa tulong, pagpalain po kayo ng Diyos….” over and over, this litany about a 7000 per week dialysis for her son, any amount will do please, but if you don’t give it’s fine… over and over, but with no power or energy. Automatic phrases. Forced out of need. Empty of pride.

One old man gave a hundred, a girl in uniform, a twenty, a pregnant lady, a fifty. The woman is not lying, her son is terribly sick, and look at her — she looks as if she too, were already dead. The people know she was near giving up, and their bills won’t help resurrect her spirit from the grave. She mumbled her gratitude with that defeated look.

They are everywhere, their needs vary. They ply their despair on jeepneys, buses, or trains, asking for alms. With the others like her, I look for signs of deceit, with my own wants and desires overwhelming their cries. But nothing gives her away. She is in a dark place and who can help her? Who will rescue her from this pit? Her child may still live, but only for a while. Unless a kidney becomes available and she can afford it, what are his chances? He seems to be her last reason for living, even if while alive, she moves among the dead.