Tuesday, August 7, 2012

HER ANDREW, MY ANDREW


Every time I hear a story of love, I cannot not help but think of a friend who suffered terrible heroism just for love.
            Andrew and I went to the same school. He was in the elementary and I was in the graduate school. Later I learned that his dad was a company manager and his mom a public school teacher.
I cannot forget the first time I met Andrew. It was raining hard that afternoon after class. I scurried toward the Parents’ Hall to take shelter when I saw him alone. Just like the other grade school children in that hall, I knew he was waiting for someone to take him home. As the rain started to flood the school pathways, I went near him and decided to engage him in a conversation.
“Hi!” I greeted.
“Hello! What’s your name?” he replied, smiling.
I told him my name and about my graduate studies. He asked me why I was in school. He sounded like a sample questionnaire in a graduate school research paper that needed to be filled up. His questions came one after the other.
The rain stopped. Most of the people in that hall left afterward. With all the class requirements that had been keeping me late at night and needed to be submitted next session, I could have left just like the others and not whiled around with a childish talk. But I stayed. For years, I finally found someone sensible to talk with.


Nanay Magda

Amazed at his smartness, I intuitively vented how lucky his parents are for having such a good and smart boy like him. But his response led to questions that I could not ask a child to explain.
“I am lucky for having my Nanay Magda,” he said. Nanay Magda, I learned later, was his nanny.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, intrigued. It is unusual for a child to be so attached to a hired help than his parents who provide for his needs.
“Because every morning she’s there to wake me up,” he began to explain.
“She says, ‘Please, darling, have your breakfast...’ ”
“She irons my school uniform...”
 “Helps me fix myself…”
“Accompanies me to school…”
“I like Nanay Magda because she buys ice cream for me before we go home.”
 That explained it, I concluded silently.
“Does she always buy ice cream for you?” I asked further, aware of the result of such an unhealthful indulgence.
“Nanay Magda will usually ask me how my day is and will buy ice cream before we go home. I love my Nanay Magda so much because she loves me,” Andrew said with much certainty. “Nanay Magda will not leave me,” he continued with a tinge of sorrow in his innocent eyes. At that moment, I could feel the greatness of love Andrew had for his nanny. An affection far greater than any fondness anyone could receive from other people.

Meeting Nanay Magda

            As luck would have it, I met the great Nanay Magda the following afternoon. She was in her forties. She had a sweet smile and an engaging disposition.
I introduced myself as Andrew’s friend. Without us knowing it, we were already talking about her life and Andrew’s.
Nanay Magda was once a mother. Unfortunately, her husband and their 2-year-old baby boy died in a vehicular accident. Her voice cracked when she narrated the pain of going home alone.  
I had to change the topic. I did not expect our first meeting would be dismal. I told her how thankful Andrew was for her selfless and untiring concern to him. She smiled. And the smile suggested that it was sweeter than the ice cream Andrew went for. I asked Nanay Magda about Andrew’s parents. It proved another miss on my part.
Nanay Magda said, rather hesitatingly, that Andrew’s parents were planning to get their marriage annulled.
“They don’t have time for Andrew. They don’t even bother to compliment him when he gets A’s in school. Andrew loves them so much but I don’t think they know about it,” Nanay Magda narrated with a sigh.
            I was off-campus for a week. When I came back, I saw Andrew in the Parents’ Hall. Out of curiosity, I asked Andrew about his parents.
“Do you love you them?” I asked further. He stared at me for a moment.
He nodded.
“Aren’t you mad if they don’t accompany you to school? Or fetch you home in the afternoon?”
“No!” he answered hastily. “Besides, I don’t want to trouble them. I understand them,” he added.
I shivered. I could not hold back my tears. How could a 9-year-old child think maturely? I was about to hug him and tell him that I love him when Nanay Magda waved at us outside.
            I understand them. It kept playing in my mind.
Poor child, I thought. What future does he have
            But as I walked my way home, I saw Nanay Magda and Andrew inside an ice cream house. My little friend dipped his finger into the ice cream box and smeared it on Nanay Magda’s nose. Then they both laughed.
Their hearty laugh made me laugh too—and forced me to eat my words.













(Published.Health and Home Magazine.October 2011)
Authored: #noel
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