Giney Villar
I almost genuflected when I saw it.
I have learned to expect surprises from the old women vendors in the market in Taal, Batangas. The ladies whose bright eyes belie the hardships hewn on their gnarled, rough hands by destiny. Fine lines and wrinkles on faces whittled by time.
“Kapalaran, bunso!” (It’s fate, child!) They would say, including me in their banter, if I happen to arrive in the midst of their daily philosophical musings. Who wouldn’t wax philosophical if you have lived through the changing of times? Of nurturing seed to tree, of young lovers declaring I-love-yous and old lovers bidding goodbyes?
Their produce is meager. Fruits are usually picked from their backyards or the idle land at the back of their houses. The land that no one seems to own or care about, w
