La lluvia
It was a dark and gloomy week. The cloud threatens the town with thunders and strikes.
Seems like it’s going to rain—a different kind of rain.
However, no rain, no thunder, none at all... can stop Philo’s desire to play. He is such a
tiny boy, who seizes the world as a big playground.
Philo craves playing like no one else. In particular, he enjoys playing so much that he
oftentimes gets scolded by his mother for playing all day long. He used to climb uphill,
then slide smoothly down the grassland, riding over a fallen coconut branch.
One day, after finishing his lunch at lightning speed (just like other kids), he decided to
hike uphill and slide. No companion doesn’t bother him, no friends, none at all. For, in
fact, Philo is playing, while waiting for someone else.
Philo slides up and down according to his own satisfaction. The itch of spiky grass has no
match to his itch of playing.
But no matter how alive Philo feels in playing, something is still missing. No matter how
wide his smiles were, tears suddenly dropped from his eyes—and he doesn’t know why.
The clock chimed 5:00 p.m., and church bells started to sway and ring. Still, Philo never
stopped playing; his heart, too, did not stop crying.
Ironic, isn’t it? That in times a boy who’s supposed to feel joy is being chewed in the fangs
of dismay.
As Philo slid down for the very last time, the surroundings went slow. He looked up at the
depressing sky as it cracked and started to drizzle. The drizzle turned into mist, and mist
into pouring rain.
The water washed the hill, covering the land with wetness. Raindrops then flowed over
Philo’s head, concealing his tears and deepest sadness.
Just in a matter of seconds, a loud scream was heard. It was Philo’s Mum, marching fiercely
while holding a single strand of broomstick in her right hand. She then went to grab his
naughty child, ordering him to go back home immediately.
“How many times do I have to tell you that you should not play while raining? What
could possibly happen to you if I am gone, Philo?" said she.
The pain delivers to all parts of Philo’s senses as her mother swats his back. A single strand
of broomstick feels sharper than a whole piece of broom. He totally knew it was his fault,
and (just like other kids), he cried out of guilt.
But no matter how aching the hits were, there was still something that completed him
inside. No matter how loud his groans were, a smile curled his lips—and he can’t explain
why.
Ironic, isn’t it? That in times a boy who’s supposed to feel pain was touched with a strange
smiling happiness.
Philo bolted and ran back home like a cheetah chasing a deer. He turned back to see his
Mum, feeling both pain and happiness as his Mum’s image slowly dissolved out of his
naked eye.
Finally, Philo went back home. Their house doesn’t seem to be normal or happy.
Dim candles light up the area, tables and chairs are arranged in rows, and playing cards are
stacked messily all over the place. There were traces of coffee stains circling the wooden
counters, white chrysanthemums decorated in every corner, and people cries like there’s
no more tomorrow.
It was the poster of “in loving memory” that pointed to the funeral. Philo then tiptoed to
see his Mum inside the coffin, feeling the emotions of an abandoned child.
“Mum, tomorrow, I’ll play in the fields again. Come see me there; punish me for being
naughty if it’s the only way to see you.” - said Philo.
It was still a dark and gloomy week. The cloud continues to threaten the town with thunder
strikes. But now, it is raining – a different kind of rain. Alone. Painful. But so loving.
