My Christmas Giveaway

Think of a thing you’ve owned for more than 10 years. It’s probably worn and torn and tested through time, but still you proudly own it, and are using it. You’ve grown so attached to it that you can identify it amidst the clutter of your room. Ten feet away. Upside down. Blindfolded.

Now think of that one thing held by someone else. “Hey! That’s mine!!” yes? There’s that certain connection wherein that thing, you know and feel, is yours.

Today, walking to Cebu IT Park, I encountered an elderly woman who greeted me “Maayong Pasko.” She held a cane, and an elderly man. She let go of her companion and extended her hand, palm faced up.

I instinctively pulled out my wallet but saw that I didn’t have bills. I opened the coin purse of the said wallet, turned it upside-down and gave all my coins to her with a smile on my face.

I apologized and said, “Mao ra’y naa nako.” Obviously, if you take it literally, I still had some more with me, but that was all I had that I could give.

She smiled, “Kana na lang pud, dong.” I looked down, and she was asking for my wallet.

My wallet?

It was given to me as a gift for my 16th birthday by my cousin, Gordon. It was a magic wallet with a coin purse and it was one of the most useful things I have ever received. This also had some sentimental value because Gordon and I hardly ever see or communicate, being that we live in different countries.

Years had passed, the wallet had grown “secret” pockets which it never had. The leather had become very soft. The ribbons that held bills had given way, but i sewed it back together. I had left it in the office, at home, at random places, but I had never lost it.

It didn’t take me a second to say, “Aw, o. Kini ay.” and I gave it to her.

She didn’t have to walk away. I had stronger legs. I didn’t watch her go, I left it with her.

The memory is still fresh with me being that it’s still 30 minutes ago upon writing this. I could sense the joy as she received my little gift. She opened the coin purse, opened it a few times. “She has a new toy.” I thought.

I went ahead. I didn’t bother looking back, or greeting “Merry Christmas”. I just walked away.

I looked up and said, “Ama,” but couldn’t continue. It was difficult to describe both the joy of helping someone out, and the separation from something so sentimental.

I looked down and asked, “Could I have done more, Ama?”