It occurred to me that on the rainy
afternoon of one November 12 day, I saw the most beautiful woman in the world
sitting on a waiting shed bench.
I
was heading home alone from a day of exhaustingly looking for the perfect dress
that I would wear for my school’s Social Graces program. I picked out a creamy
lace dress with sweet spring flowers adorning it, and now it lay in a paper bag
that bumped against my legs as I bounced down the stained stairs. People from
all walks of life dotted the platform of the MRT station, from posh suited
businessmen with their cell phones attached to their ears, petite women
gossiping about the latest telenovela, to old men who wore dirty red caps and
black jackets and held canes.
The
wide expanse of sky grew heavy with dark tears. Raindrops drowned out the
droning of the crowd, and the crackle of the lightning flashed across the sky
as I stood alone on the Ayala station platform. A rumbling of baritone thunder
was heard in the distance, but when I looked down the tracks, there was no sign
of the train. Impatient, I glanced at my watch. It was 2:09 in the afternoon,
and I should be home by now, just in time for my siesta. I shifted feet and
closed my eyes for a minute, inhaling the city smog, human perspiration, and
shattered rain. I slowly opened my eyes to find myself facing a bench on the
opposite platform, and there sat a lady of 30 years, watching after two
rambunctious little boys racing around her like cars. And in that moment, I knew
that I was looking at the most beautiful woman in the world.
Even
from afar, I saw the crumple of her graceful figure as her mirror eyes were
dragged along by the shrieking boys. Her wiry black hair shimmered down her
shoulders like a horse’s mane, though rebellious strands of grey hair were
strewn across her sweaty forehead. Her disheveled clothes seemed to be a
monotonous uniform: a blouse and skirt of navy blue matched with brown
stockings and shoes that looked too small for her. Yes, she must be a
saleslady. She shuffled slightly on her seat, face worn down and tired. I even
imagined her letting out a soft moan of exhaustion. She sat there, looking like
she was the most ordinary woman in the world. But oh, she sat there, oblivious
to my astonished awe.
It seemed so unreal, watching her
from across the platform. It was as if the whole motion of the world, from the
fall of the rain to the chatter of the people, had stopped to gaze at this
ethereal figure.
I snapped back to reality as the
heels of her shoes sonorously clicked against the platform as her two boys
danced to the music of their playful banter. God knows how long I’ve been
waiting, or staring at the lady on the bench, but hearing the blare of the
train echoing in the distance, I’ve been waiting for a while. On my platform,
men and women and children scurry to their orchestrated positions and waited
for the train to arrive. I notice that the people gathering on the other
platform were shooting annoyed glances toward the running boys, and their
mother herded them futilely with her hushed voice.
I seemed unmoved by the action
around me, only focusing on the lady holding her little boys’ hands so gently
yet firmly. Clinging onto her grasp, the two enthusiastic boys calmed down and
soon, sat on both sides of her, basking in the comfort of her warm presence. They
closed their little eyes as the train chugged into the station. But just before
that jolt of motion, the arrival of the train that forever separated me and the
small family, I caught a glimpse of a smile on the woman’s wrinkled face.
And in that moment, I knew that I was
looking at the most beautiful woman in the world.
