Paldo

He was without shoes and had crumpled shirt on. He was a stranger, same as the many others that came before him. Paldo, as I would call him one day, caught my attention the first time I saw him. He could have been my father. Except, my father died thirteen years ago in a hospital bed.

Paldo had a frightening face when he asked if the mayor was in. I wanted to tell him that he need not be afraid and could very well enter the room as he pleased. If I woke up at the wrong side of the bed that day, I could have treated him coldly. But, I didn't. I only had pity for the man who wanted to eat one meal that Thursday afternoon.

He came at a wrong time, too, for me. I had enough change for the jeepney trip back home. I, too, had an empty stomach. But Paldo's hunger was different. He told me he hadn't eaten for two days. I knew his hunger was longer than two days.

His presence in my life that day was heartbreaking. Paldo reminded me of my father. Tito, as friends would call him, was a very simple man. Often, he would work on an empty stomach just so he could save some food for the children and my mother. I could very well remember how he used to look like when I knew he wasn't eating much. Yet, he didn't complain. He never complained.

Paldo, too, did not complain. Despite the hunger, he smiled when I told him he looked like my father. I should have hugged him that very moment. Hugged him the way I hugged my father everytime he made me sit on his lap after the usual scolding I get from him. But, I got scared. Scared because I knew his visit was only temporary, he would still go somewhere far and leave me. Like the way my father left me.

I handed Paldo my last twenty pesos and kidded him that he better get a good meal rather than use the money for something else. How he laughed when he heard it from me. Paldo told me he used to get the same kind of scolding from his late daughter Maria.

He bid goodbye and wished to see me again someday, in a better place and time.

Maybe.