We were the santan shrubs planted under the ledge of the stage in the grandstand. We have been here for years already and everyday was a struggle to get sunlight since the plane above us is blocking our view of the sky. We had to stretch out our leaves constantly for us to survive. Water, on the other hand, was never a problem. The toilet is right behind us and the liquid from men taking a bath was sufficient for our population here.
But one individual santan was different from us. She tended not to stretch her leaves out to the sunlight. It was a wonder how she survived for a long time. But, she was always weak, talked softly and was quiet. She did not even talk much. She had no flowers at all since I saw her from my position.
The other shrubs laughed at her, but she stood by her quiet vow not to get swayed by others. She was rebellious but has her word. She was unique.
Last month, I noticed how dry her leaves went. She was not even that green she used to be. I noticed her twigs stopped growing. I could even hear her silent cry, but she was a fighter. She stood by her word even though the rest of us stopped making fun of her but realizing her courage to defy what was tradition.
Seven days ago, she finally withered. It was a pain watching a fellow die. Her leaves fell one by one, minute by minute. And soon, her stem gave off.
But I should say that I can still feel her presence today. I feel refreshed, as if there’s a new source of energy. Even the other could feel it. Then, I realized, it was coming from the soil. It was the santan’s essence.
