The supermarket had announced that it was closed by the time we approached the checkout counter. I braced myself for the look of annoyance on the cashier’s face. I couldn’t blame her.
We had nine carts, and getting us on her lane meant doing overtime. But her face had a blank expression. She started scanning the contents of the first cart—bottled water, a lot of bottled water. Then she looked at me and said, “Ma’am, Tacloban ’to?”
“Oo,” I replied.
A smile lit up her face and she continued scanning while I tried not to cry in the middle of Shopwise.
It wasn’t just her, it was everyone in the supermarket—the shelf fillers who eagerly helped us find more ready-to-eat food in tear-open packs and pull-tab cans, who gave us repacking suggestions, who waited patiently while we argued over the correct plastic bag size, who didn’t flinch when we counted and recounted to make sure we had the right number of goods.
It was almost midnight by the time we finished—an hour after the supermarket had closed—but none of the staff seemed to mind.
I felt like giving them hugs. Instead, I gave them a cheery wave and left, thankful to be living in a country where the people are not only strong and resilient but also incredibly kind.
Pam Pastor has been writing for the Inquirer for 15 years. She is trading nail polish bottles for new underwear for the survivors of Yolanda.
