view from below

view from below PAULA MAE E. VILLAROSA

i loathe them.

they came and went in throngs or in smaller groups. the women either wore their cheeks in the light bouncing off the cathedral’s marble walls or upon its unfinished façade. the men either puffed their chests, swelling with pride along the booming voice of the reverend giving the same repetitive sermon to unknowing audiences from dawn to dusk or slumped over with offbeat steps like the clamoring church bells echoing through town. the children wandered the aisles along with the dillydallying of the altar servers or cried as they pleased with the broken tune of the choir singing hymns and praises they’ve memorized not by heart. they all held their chins up high— towards a heaven they were taught to seek but did not believe.

the boy who immediately clung to his mother’s skirt at the church’s threshold after locking eyes with me in my (faded) bright orange tee. i lifted my gaze towards his petite yet towering form. out in the crisp and ghastly morning air—smooth, chubby knuckles turning as white as the collars of his shirt— buttons cinched up to the brim of his neck. trousers—zipped high, tucking his shirt. he tried planting his small feet unto the gravel but he was dragged forward—buckled shoes catching dust. his eyes widened as he stumbled on the cathedral’s dilapidated steps, entering through the towering rickety doors.

the young bachelor who barreled through the red paper cup and the rusting tin can—spilling the mere spare change inside. my head ticked upwards when he stomped on the stale chicken leg that was another’s feast as he made his way inside. paying no heed to anyone beneath, his gaze set on the glistening silver cross that topped the midmost tower. he bowed his head—whole frame slightly, as he swerved through the aisles. settling on the cathedral’s frontmost pew. his eyes wandered to the sparrows that flew overhead while the reverend spewed his homily. his musings reflected on the prismatic stained glass

windows, vibrant, as his eyes yet glazed over.

the old widower who passed by the dusty pavement outside—giving the cathedral a side glance as he dragged his shambly vessel along the opposite side of traffic. he’d cast his shadow over me from afar, forcing me to look up towards his tanned skin prickling in the damp, hot air as the horizons turned a conspicuous blunge of pink and gray. he’d stop short at the iron-wrought gates—feet glued to the ground, body stiff, eyes unmoving. gaping at st. sebastian’s statue—the effigy seemingly returning his stare. and it stayed that way. as the crowd thinned, he’d limp away.

it galled my skin away more than the glaring sun in the high heavens above. they condemned those below them— turned-up noses obscuring their view. believing in babbles they hadn’t understood nor questioned. they disgusted me— looking through them like mirrors, begging for scraps. looking up—expecting to see the same horizon far above.

ART BY EARL JOHN D. PABULAR