When I was still cute (my mom believes that to this moment of revelation), I was so envious watching my girl classmates wearing that flower top with flower head decors and flower anklets holding the thin pair of sticks to the tune of "hola hola" dance. I was so thin back then that I was a sickling chic my mother would rather want me not to get involve in rigorous school activities.
My grade school teacher who happened to be our neighbor didn't looked at me that way. One rainy morning while I was about to prepare for school, she came to our house persuading my mom that I should join in her dance troop. And she was even determined to pay from her own pocket the expenses for the costumes. That's how much she believed in my potential. Not only in dancing, but for my love for arts.
We've been in different schools competing for different categories and levels. Not on a single occasion that she did not fixed my bobcut hair back then. And not on a single occasion that she complained paying for my costume.
This year, she turned 75. I rarely dance now, except when my Unit is full. I seldom do paintings lately as my schedule cannot afford I can work on canvas. And for the longest time, I haven't seen her dancing just like the days she would on back stage so we'll never forget the steps.
Thank you for your feet that had taught mine to move in grace. Thank you for your hands that lovingly stroked my hair so I'll have an ounce of confidence to dance in the stage.
Both of us may have been moving in our own rhythm of life, but I'll not forget the melody of love for that sickling child.
Happy Teacher's Day!
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