by FRANZ ZOE STOELZL T. BAROÑA
ANDENG SORTED countless mails since the first ascent of dawn. It was only fair for her to evoke a sense of weariness.
At 7 in the evening, she departed from the Post Office and wandered along the entangled paths of Liwasang Bonifacio. Lampposts and lanterns contrasted the dullness of the plaza and accentuated the street vendors, beggars, and commuters who took refuge under the shades of ancient Narra trees.
Unknowingly, Andeng stumbled upon an elderly lady sleeping beside a pedestal. A cup underneath her caught the attention of the young sorter of letters, prompting Andeng to open her purse and kneel down.
“Nay, ito ho,” Andeng muttered.
At first, she hesitated to place coins and pandesal into the cup. They may not be enough.
Suddenly, she thought of something that could carve a sentiment in her heart: a handwritten letter.
Andeng brought out a small piece of paper and a pencil. After some scribbles, she inserted the paper along with the coins and bread in the cup before bidding her farewell.
A monument of Andres Bonifacio separated the postal office from Taft Avenue. A lone bus, with “N. Dela Rosa Liner” written on its side, stood by the tail of the road.
“Alabang, Zapote!” the conductor repeatedly exclaimed.
Andeng sprinted towards the bus—just in time for the old lady to rouse from her nap and catch a glimpse of the letter:
“Nasa landas mo ang himig ng ilaw, nay.” F