..Chuckie and the pink bag..

I am standing on queue waiting for my trip back home. The weather is gloomy, and the drizzles just started. I can still feel the effect of the hangover from the previous night of "occasional drinking". I left my heart to that place that so far made the best of my vacation. There's a small grief while I'm clutching the pink bag that was given to me. I feel like upon returning from that trip, that something was left behind, and that the days are over to retrieve it. My attention was transfixed to those afternoons of watching waves flippantly chasing one after the other, the grandiose clear sky my hands are incapable to put on a canvass, the laxity of time that passed gracefully because you are at the moment detached from the world's uproar, the silent moments you count your blessings and thanking God for all the undeserved explosive gifts. I will always treasure those mornings of sweet waking, of getting up with messy hair just to watch the sunrise among the calm horizons, watching people walking on the sand because it is their joy, people walking going to work, and I honestly don't envy them, people walking to stay fit, people walking because they needed to. And me, there at the beach side, forgetting about what walking is and simply being taken away by serenity. Those priceless nights where you cannot gauge how wide the sea is but you believe anyway that it has no end, the lights you cannot appreciate by day time, but only when the darkness sets in. Those, I wouldn't exchange for the world...

The little boy's voice interrupted the ripples I am savoring. It's started to rain, and he was consuming the limited space of shade outside the gate from where I am standing. It's needless to say what he wants at the moment, for his hand was shaking while he lay it open wide for something. I grabbed the Chuckie drink I put on my pink bag and was about to give it when the woman on my side prevented me. Don't tolerate them, she casually told me. I waited for sometime and watched the little boy. I can feel a connection, probably because I feel gloomy within. "Hindi ko kaya", I told the lady beside me.  I handed him the chocolate drink, and he ran away. She just stared at me, and I looked at the direction to where the little boy ran. Jesus would do that.

Among the crowds that day, how many of them are having drizzles within? How many are on the battle of walking through tough past, inconceivable future, and a puzzled present? How many are rejected just because we are heading other's voice and not ours? How many Jesus would you turn your back to?

Thank God for Chuckie and the pink bag!