November Rain

It was dawn one cold November when every waking soul in our house overheard a conversation from the street.

"Kuya (big brother), we have a contribution in school. It's ten pesos."

"That's yours," said wearily by the big brother after a sound of coins being counted reverberated throughout the sleeping neighborhood.

"Let's go!," said another female voice. "The fishermen will be arriving shortly."

"There is not enough for the fish now. I need to pay what we ate last night. C'mon, let's get something for breakfast."

There was silence after they left and then the neighborhood began moving to start their day.

Early this morning, I saw the 3 of them sheltering themselves from the rain using the dirty sacks they used to wrap their goods. They were shivering and wet from head to toe and their lips were purple. I wonder if a cup of hot coffee is waiting for them at home, as hot and creamy as the one I have in my hand.

They sell "tangkong", a green-leafy vegetable nobody in this part of the world is brave enough to eat. It is sold as a hog's feed at a very cheap price. Every dawn, rain or shine, the shouting of "tangkong" is a familiar sound in our little sleepy town.

There was once when my Kuya rose from bed angrily, cursed their parents, bought all their goods and told them to go home and sleep. The shouting returned early dawn the following day.

Beat this! My town's government choir just went to Malaysia to sing. I wonder how many hundreds of thousands of pesos of taxpayer's money was spent to send them there. Though, I'm sure hot steaming coffee creamier than what I have now is waiting for them at their hotel suites.

Damn lucky bastards.

By the way, there used to be 4 tangkong vendors. One was hit by a speeding vehicle while carrying a sackful of tangkong over her head. She died instantly. Would you call her lucky?