Youngblood
Meeting Maxene
By Homer G. Malonzo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 01:05:00 08/21/2008
I call her Maxene, although I doubted from the beginning that that’s her name. She looks like Maxene to me, so I named her Maxene.
I see her only on Sundays—no, not every Sunday, but at least one Sunday a month. She probably isn’t even aware about our Sunday rendezvous, so she misses them a lot more often than she makes them. When she cannot make it, I don’t blame her at all. I just smile and tell myself she’s having the time of her life somewhere else. She deserves it, I guess. She’s been a really good girl. She’s been an adorable little girl.
I first saw Maxene about 18 months ago on a Sunday afternoon. I was sitting near the side entrance of the church when she, cradled in her mother’s arms, passed by me while her father led them to a pew near where I was seated. The Mass was about to start when I had my first glimpse of her. She was wearing a pink little dress with a matching pink hairpin that rested on the few strands of hair she had. She wasn’t wearing any shoes, but her socks had laces and small flowers printed on them.
It was December then, so the air was cool. I thought it was the chill that turned her cheeks red and rosy, but the seasons came and went and her cheeks remained just as lovely. Her big round eyes glistened, especially when she heard the piano play in concert with the choir.
Some months later, she still couldn’t speak more than two words, but she was already singing at the top of her lungs. Of course, she was out tune, but that didn’t make her sound less angelic. The first time I heard her sing, I thought she was one of the cherubim. And she might as well be. It was easy for me to grow fond of her.
From that Sunday when I first saw her, I made it a point to take a seat on the same spot in the hope of seeing her again. For the first few Sundays that followed, she and her parents would come to hear Mass and sit around the same area, so it became part of my Sundays to see her. Sometimes, they would take a seat behind me, and sometimes a little too far from me so that I had to crane my neck to catch her smile. When her mom carried her and she happened to look at my direction, I would make funny faces and she would laugh. I was not quite sure if she was actually laughing at me because there were moments in between prayers, when everyone was silent and she would just crack up for no reason at all. She would giggle and her two barely visible front teeth would show.
After a few more Sundays like this, her two front teeth became four. Then, she had more. I was seeing her grow up before my eyes.
Many more afternoons passed, and little by little she continued to bloom. The stroller her dad used to push soon disappeared, and a new set of coloring books and crayons came with them instead.
When the Mass begins, she would pull out her books and start to paint the ducks yellow, the apples red, and the leaves green. She used to color outside the drawing patterns but she’s now gotten a lot better. Now, she would ask, in her cute little voice, which crayon she should use. She still confuses blue green with green, but who doesn’t?
Her hair is longer now, so aside from the hairpins, she has started using headbands depending on what she wears. She still wears mostly pink, but I bet anything would look good on her. I remember one Sunday before the Halloween, when she came to church dressed as a witch, but because she was so pretty she looked like a fairy.
She sings in tune now, though she still babbles the words sometimes. She no longer wants to sit on her mom’s lap, and she sits sandwiched between her parents. She still does not follow the cue when people sit or stand, but she tries to kneel when everyone does. When she succeeds, her feet dangle and her hands grip the pew. She falls down a lot of times, but as soon as her dad or mom picks her up, she tries to kneel again. She insists on kneeling, even when it hurts and it’s uncomfortable. Then, she smiles.
Our meetings were always like this—me watching from a distance, and she doing what she does—until last Sunday. I took my seat 10 minutes early when the church was still half-empty. So, while waiting for the Mass, I started browsing the missal. I was turning a page when the family arrived and sat next to me. I realized that it was the closest I’ve ever been to them.
Maxene was even more angelic up close. She looked at me and gave me the sweetest smile. I smiled back and said hello. I asked what her name was, but she just gave me another smile and went back to her mom, who answered for her, “I am Daniella.”
I started chatting with them and found out that it was actually her second birthday. I greeted her a happy birthday and she shyly responded, “Thank you.” It was only when the choir began singing the processional song that my first conversation with little Maxene, or rather Daniella, and her parents ended.
As the Mass progressed, she still did what she normally does: She colored her books and threw endless questions at her parents. Then, after a successful attempt at kneeling and standing on cue with the rest of us, she tried her best to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
A few moments later, I witnessed her do something she had never done before. During the peace offering, she walked sideways toward me, and extended her hand in a sign of peace. I took her hand and told her, “Peace be with you.” She smiled once again and returned to her seat, and her parents kissed her for the gesture she gave me.
I’ve exchanged peace offerings with strangers before, but I’ve never felt as peaceful as I did last Sunday after Maxene extended to me her prayer for peace. And I understand why the peace she gave me felt very special. Maxene (yes, I still call her that) was never a stranger to me.
Homer G. Malonzo, 28, is an assistant statistician at the Department of Agrarian Reform Regional Office in San Fernando, Pampanga.
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