FINGERS IN THE FLOWER VASE

Gigi Cuasay

[At one of the desks, she sat quietly. Her name is irrelevant. She may be one of many little girls. What room it was, is irrelevant, too. It may be any classroom in hundreds of schools all over the country. She sat quietly. She was not aloof. Her face was too calm to be proud. But she wat there unmoving. Apparently, she was nursing a secret wound. But from the peaceful air around her, it was eveident that she was hopeful. She knew for sure that her pains would end, but when? This, she did not know.]

The blackboards hung from the fron walls of the class. Topping them was a dusty flower vase. The water plant contained in the vase was a forgotten little thing. Its leaves were almost brown with dirt, too. Apparently, it had not been watered for a long time. Then, in one sudden moment, the flower vase rocked from its place. Was it the wind? There was a dull thud on the floor. All the other children in the room did not hear it. But she, who was sitting quietly in the corner, heard it.

She stood up from her chair. Soon, she had the flower vase in her hands. Fortunately, it did not break. She touched the half dried plant. Then, she left the room. It was a long time before she was back in her quiet chair. But when she sat there again as quietly as she had always done, her eyes were fixed on the flower vase on the wall, dusted now, and on the flower plant, a little green now, for she had filled the flower vase with water.

Now the quiet air around her was different. The empty expression which her face had worn, was gone. Though still calm, she felt something different deep down inside her. She had done something to fill the gap which had hurt for so long. And when she gazed at the flower vase, it was not the water plant she saw there, but moving fingers.

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