Writer’s note: I wrote this story based on true events almost a year ago. As I was going over my posts, I decided to publish this again at a more recent date. This is for all of you who never got around to reading it. I shall forever remember the little twilight girl in my heart, especially on late, chilly afternoons.
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It was right after office hours.
I was walking down a slanted road as the sun was beginning its descent. There were a few uniformed students ambling on the other side of the street, and a man pedaling on an old bicycle at a comfortable pace. To my right farther down below, ran a narrow spring surrounded by thick palm and pine trees, and bordered with overgrown grass.
At half past five, Malaybalay was already dark, and there was a nippy quality to the air reminiscent of Christmas midnights. I was going to a friend’s house for dinner, and already I was looking forward to the menu planned that evening: pineapple adobo, cucumber and tomato salad, warm organic rice, and ice-cold tea.
Some minutes into my walk, I noticed a little girl toddling ahead of me, carrying a small umbrella, and a plastic bag. She was a little more than a feet tall, and was wearing a floral-printed dress, only I realized a little later that the prints really were brown smudges brought about by years of worn out use.
I also observed a middle-aged man further ahead, turning his head to check on the little girl every few seconds. “Why can’t he wait for his little daughter to keep pace with him?” I muttered to myself, “If she stumbled on a rock, and hit her head on the pavement, he wouldn’t sleep another night in his lifetime.”
But the man soon entered a narrow walkway, looking back only once, while the girl walked on ahead of me. There were not too many pedestrians on that part of the street, and now I was already climbing a small slope. It wasn’t hard catching up with the little girl.
“Hello.” I said.
She turned her head to look up at me, and smiled slightly. She had chocolate brown skin, and black round eyes. Her hair was short and curly at the tips.
“Kinsa imong kauban? (Who are you with?),” I asked her.
“Wala. Akong lang isa. (No one. I’m walking alone)”
“Asa diay inyong balay? Layo pa inyong balay? (Where do you live? Do you live far?)”
“Didto sa Heights. Duol ra man. (I live in Heights. It’s not too far.)
We were walking on Springsite Street, and to get to Heights, you still had to pass a row of vacant lots, and a stretch of bumpy roads.
“Pila diay imong edad? Ga eskuwela na ka? (How old are you? Are you in school already?)
She then attempted to count with her fingers, though quite awkwardly because she was holding a dirty umbrella with one hand, and a plastic bag with the other.
“Seven. Oo, ga eskwela na ko. (Seven. Yes I go to school.)”
If she was telling me the truth, I’d still find it hard to believe her. My three-year old godchildren were actually taller. She looked so small that the plastic bag she was carrying almost touched the ground.
Suddenly, she bent down to pick up something. She giggled at me, and continued examining her loot.
“Unsa man na? Tan-aw ko beh. (What’s that? Can I take a look?)”
She stretched one tiny arm towards me.
“Dulaan. (It’s a toy.)”
It was a black plastic cell phone casing. It was dusty and scratched in all places, perhaps tossed away by someone who found it useless. But she held it as if it were gold. Then I remembered all the toys I had when I was this young; the beautiful Japanese doll, my blond Barbie, my stuffed bears, and all my precious cookware play sets. And even at this twenty-something age, I still sleep with a pink stuffed pig beside my headboard, and a furry bear sitting on my bedside table.
“Nag eskwela ka karon? Nganong naglakaw ka na gabii naman? (Did you go to school today? If so, why are you still out at this hour?)”
“Wala man ko nag eskwela ganina. Kay masuko si mama, primi ko mangayo baon. (I didn’t go to school today. Mother usually gets angry, because I always ask for allowance)”
I was already at my friend’s house. But I walked a bit farther to listen to the little girl with the dirty dress and old umbrella, wanting to walk her home. It was already dark, and I could hardly make out the houses and trees up ahead, for the streetlights have not yet come to life. She told me her house was already near. So I said goodbye.
“Sige, bye-bye (Okay, goodbye).” I half-whispered.
“Bye, bye”
As I stepped inside, I stole one glance at her. She was now walking comfortably, as if she had done these twilight walks a thousand times. I knew her house was still far, that she still had to walk through rock-strewn grounds under her tiny, callused feet, in the burgeoning darkness. She tucked her diminutive umbrella under one arm, while she continued to study her new plaything, laughing I know because she could hardly make out what it was.
That night, I half-heartedly ate my dinner. Later, I went to bed after a prayer that was longer than usual. But I didn’t sleep for several hours. The little girl always came back to me; the round eyes, the earthy skin, the washed-out dress.
I didn’t even ask for her name.
Take care.
