Parol
by Catherine Belardo
I was walking across the street when I passed by the cathedral. A silent prayer of hope echoed as the cold, festive air brushed against my skin. As I concluded my prayer in my mind, I looked up at the sky. Millions of twinkling stars were scattered across the endless night of the Christmas season.
There was a kid. She stared at me innocently, hiding something behind her beautiful purple dress adorned with stars. I smiled at her as I continued to walk. For some reason, I wondered what she was hiding behind her back that made me feel the world was both alive and painful at the same time.
In the back of my mind, I admired those kids who attended mass a few nights before Christmas. Sharing love, laughter, and treats like bibingka and puto bumbong with their families. Perhaps, this child attended the first mass of Simbang Gabi, waiting for her family in front of the cathedral.
Every morning, I walked to the terminal on my way to work and often passed by the cathedral. I always looked at the lamppost where the child stood. She reminded me of my younger self — someone who loved every shade of purple.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my youth. when I believed the magic of Christmas could make everything okay, that if I completed the nine consecutive days of Simbang Gabi, Jesus Christ would grant my deepest wish. Now, I sit here, staring at the blinking lights of the giant Christmas Parol in front of the cathedral, feeling the weights of emotions of the child standing underneath the lamppost, hands behind her back, hiding something.
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As the bell chimes on the last day of Simbang Gabi, I decided to attend the final mass at the nearby cathedral. I was looking for her. It is been 30 minutes since the mass started, and yet there is no trace of the child’s shadow anywhere to be found.
Before the clock struck midnight on Christmas day and the mass came to an end, I finally saw her. She was wearing her beautiful purple dress, but this time, the once vibrant color seemed faded.
Amidst the lively crowd and the hum of conversations and laughter, I saw what she had been hiding. It was a handmade parol. She was selling it to the people leaving the cathedral, calling out softly for buyers together with the phrase “pangkain lang po.”
As I approached the entrance of the cathedral, the child extended her hand, offering me the twinkling parol and begging me to buy the last one. I paid for the lantern, and she smiled sweetly, saying, “Merry Christmas po!” and I felt her sincerity. With soft gestures, she accepted the paper bills, her eyes shining with warmth and joy.
Before she could count the coins for my change, I left without a word, letting her keep the hundred-peso bill. Smiling to myself, I watched her from a distance as she looked around, trying to find me to return the change.
Later that night, after I had hung the parol in front of our house, my mother and I went out to buy some kakanin to celebrate and welcome Christmas. Once again, I saw the child, this time holding a plastic bag of kakanin, running back to her home. Out of curiosity, I took a peak through their little wooden gate. She was feeding her little brother, perhaps no older than six, her bed-ridden mother, and her father, who had just returned from work. They ate together while joy radiating from their faces. It was then I realized the joy of giving.
It is a strange feeling — celebration all around — and yet, if we look closely, there’s this kid feeling empty, not in her feelings but in her stomach.
Everywhere I go, there’s a hint of joy in the air. Neighbors are filled with the symphony of singing carolers, and people are hurrying to buy last-minute gifts in this time of rush hour. Christmas is here — at least for them. But not for the child standing in front of the cathedral, under the lamppost, holding a twinkling parol in her hand.
