From the best bakery in town

Papa always told me that I was his special little angel. Even though Mama died giving birth to a child they did not expect to have, she still left him with something to remember of her. I was his constant reminder of Mama’s existence in his life.

Papa struggled to switch with one work to another, because he told me that he needed to earn enough money, so he could enroll me this school year. I told Papa I envied the kids in our neighborhood, who were of the the same age as I were and who went to Brgy. Retiro Elementary School, with their backpacks and kisses of goodbye from their parents. Papa said he was not sure because we could not afford it yet.

Papa had a lot of friends. I called them my titos. They were good to me and my Papa. They offered all the help they could give, even as simple as fixing any certain part of our raggedy home. Some people in the barangay said they could be trouble at times, but I never ceased to believe it because they were always so kind.

However, I heard one ale said they were tulak, but I did not understand. The word sounded new and foreign to my ears. But I did not ask questions.

Sometimes, in the weekends, they brought their kids to our house and let us play with each other. We played tumbang preso, piko, and patintero on the streets. I considered them friends, despite their naughtiness sometimes.

When they were leaving, Papa would always tell me “Don’t always play with them alright?” and “Be careful when you talk to your titos, okay?”

I always nodded in agreement but still, I did not understand what he meant by that because they were always good to me. After that, Papa gave me the pasalubong that he consistently gave me.

Papa knew how I loved monay; maybe because I got the sentiment from him. He always gave me a bag of monay when he came home from work. I would like to think of it as a promise. There would not be a night when Papa did not carry a bag of monay in his hand. According to him, that monay was purchased from the best bakery in the town. I always wanted to visit that place.

Every night, as a kid, I looked forward for his pasalubong because I knew this meant that he always thought of me despite not seeing me for the whole day. Then, I would share my bread with Papa and eat half of it with him.

Although he always said that I could have it all for myself, I always insisted on doing it and said, “You deserve it, Papa.”

Because he really did.

It is not entirely easy to make a living by working a blue- collar job. The pay wasn’t always enough, but Papa always told me the reason why he was working hard—for my future.

Because of this, whenever I saw Papa clutching a paper bag with a soft looking bread inside of it, I already perceived his intention of buying it from the best bakery he told me.

Papa’s friend, whom I have not seen, but was familiar to my eyes, went to our home one day. Looking from the stature of the man, he looked tense and cautious of his actions. Papa looked at me warily and told me to go to the bedroom.

As both of them started talking, I couldn not comprehend Papa’s words. His emotions were difficult to read. Being the curious child that I was, I tried to make out words of their conversation while remembering what Papa said: “You shouldn’t listen to grown-ups’ talks.” I sighed. Even if I listened, I would not understand them anyway.

I know Papa would not do something that would gain us trouble. I also know that Papa would do everything for me. But knowing all these did not leave me satisfied as I was afraid that Papa seemed to be involved with bad people.

“No, I said I am done.” I heard Papa’s faint voice muffled by the door.

Finally, when Papa’s friend left, Papa called me out of my room. He had a huge smile on his face like nothing happened and asked me, “Are you ready to go to school?”

I frowned in confusion, I did not really know what to say. The change of his emotion caught me off-guard which made me wanted him to pry and asked who it was. Until I realized what he meant by his words, I hugged him tight and thanked him. After that incident , my questions were masked by the excitement I felt that I would finally go to school.

Papa, as expected, brought out a paper bag of monay. That time I noticed something different. He brought more monay—all were also fresh and hot. As I opened the bag, I could smell the freshly baked bread. This left me ecstatic and started eating them one by one with a huge smile on my face.

While I was busy munching on over the bread, Papa said, “Don’t finish it all. Save the rest for later.”

Slowly, I finished chewing what was left in my mouth and swallowed. “But, I’m hungry.”

“Well, what if I couldn’t bring you more next time because the bakery’s closed, what will you do then?” His voice was as serious and empathetic.

I could not reply. The only thing that I had in this world was my father. We were not financially rich, but the love and care he gave me were enough for me to think that we were wealthy.

Still, I could not answer.

Looking back, I interpreted my father’s words differently today. For some reason, it reflected how I felt in times of trouble.

“…what will you do then?”

Those were the last words I remember from my father when the neighbors told me that he was shot.

I said, “What? How?”

They said, “On the head; on his way home from his work.”

I never understood why someone would kill my father. He was a good man. He was not perfect.

People said, “You wouldn’t understand, you’re just a child…,”,… “Drugs kill people, child…,”, … “Very disappointing…"

I have many questions left unanswered.

Someone killed my father and no one could explain to me what really happened. They told me I would understand when I am old enough.

When the funeral for Papa began, I saw him in the casket. I could not understand why. When I saw my Papa’s remains, it reminded me of something that I heard from one of our neighbors who said, “Naku, baka natokhang yan.”

Still, as a child, I saw his body as the embodiment of his promise of coming home. His pale and unconscious body was as stale as the breads that he would always bring home to me every night.

I have never understood why the soft and sweet monay from the best bakery in town suddenly became rough and bitter—just like the justice that I never got from my country. Lady Cherbette N. Agot