Tutay

I retreated myself in an obscure corner - away from the unfamiliar faces, the even more unfamiliar dialect chatter, the dried watermelon seeds, cupcakes, coffee, and stacks of non-biodegradable styrofoam cups.

In solitude, I hoped to distance myself from the past few hours that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden.

The little girl sought me. Maybe she was bored with her company. Or maybe she felt sorry for me, sitting by myself in the far bench. Whatever her reason is, she was not put off by my seeming aloofness.

She offered me a Zest-O, which I declined. She proceeded to insert the straw into the previously offered juice, apparently claiming it for herself. She crossed her legs, indian-fashioned. We talked for a while - the only lengthy and significant conversation I've had during the day.

Her name is Haira Jean. Or Tutay. She explained the uncommon nickname even before I got the chance to ask. She only knows that her aunts started calling her that when she was four and it stuck. I considered maybe it could be a child's mispronunciation of "Tatay". Amazingly, we share the same surname. Her father is a distant cousin of sorts. Another one of those relatives I do not know about. Her siblings are also initialled HJ. Hazel Joy. Harvey John. And other HJ's.

She is in the second grade; has been ranked top five both in the first and second grading period. The third grading period results has not come out yet, so she doesn't know yet how she fared. She wears a key around her neck. She tells me it's their classroom key and she was the assigned keeper because she comes to school early at 630 am everyday.

On February 21, she will receive the sacrament of confirmation and she asks if I'll be in town by then. "Kumpil" are still big deals in the small predominantly Catholic towns. She's part of the children choir and participates in the church activities for kids.

She was not satisfied in just answering all my questions. She wanted to ask me some herself.

How old am I? Twenty-seven.

Am I married? No.

Do I live nearby? I used to, but I now live in Manila.

How did I get there? I took a bus and two jeepney rides.

How much was the fare? Offhandedly, around P120. (When she asked for each ride's specific fare, she told me it was actually P119.)

Do I have any brothers or sisters? Yes, but they weren't around.

Where's my mother? She died last October.

Her eyes widened in apparent concern. She glanced at the well-lit focus point in the center of the room - the flowers, the candles, the framed photograph of my late father on top of the ornately carved hardwood casket. "Ibig sabihin wala ka nang magulang?"

The realization washed over me. I nodded and told her, "Wala na."

Suddenly, she did not seem like the tiny eight year old talking to the adult. She was the good-hearted person sympathizing with an orphan.

I close my eyes, seeking rest from the past few months that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden