Ordinary Women

Out of the ordinariness of their lives, they create an extraordinary friendship.

Like different flowers from the same garden, they have varied perspectives but they bloom just the same in their own diversity. Their concern for each other’s welfare is the topsoil that nurtures them. Their laughter is the sunshine that makes them grow. Their collective tears — in joyful and sorrowful moments — serve as the water that irrigates their friendship.

They are women — sweet yet strong.

They are the best of friends — come hell or high water.

Some people in our neighborhood in Gulod call them the Cinco Marias. They are five women whose outlook in life is governed by their love for their own family. They are five women who develop a penchant to be there for each other in times both happy and sad. My mother Candida “Dadeng” Tenorio, 70, has been leading the Cinco Marias band for several decades now. She makes sure that no one among the members of the group — which is also composed of Nicanora “Oma” Cruz, 70; Patricia “Patreng” Gimutao, 79; Margarita “Itang” Gimutao, 77; and Dalisay “Deleng” Dimaculangan, 74 — is left behind. They live near each other. More than that, they live, so to speak, in each other’s heart.

After doing their respective household chores, they make the terrace of our humble home their hangout every single day. Dressed in their “dusters,” their “national costume,” they exchange stories, jokes and secrets at our terrace. When there is nothing more they can talk about, they allow the sweet breeze to lull them for a siesta as they sit or lie down on the couch, bamboo bench and rocking chair. The robust narra tree in our garden serves as their sentry as they perform a sweet melody to dreamland.

These women are also seen huddled together in a table when they attend a birthday or wedding reception. They don’t leave home without each carrying an ang pao (a red envelope that contains a little amount) for the birthday celebrator or the couple.

When they all feel physically well, they go malling together at SM Santa Rosa; and they hold hands as they cross the street after alighting a jeepney. 

In desolate times, they console each other. No one abandons the ship of friendship. Part of their strength is anchored on each other. Come fair winds, they sail together to the sea of life. During inclement weather, they check on each other and see each other through. Rough waters become still and peaceful when wisdom is whispered among them.

Because friendship is all about sharing, expect that what’s cooking in one’s kitchen many times reaches the dining table of the other. When Inang Itang left for Macau for a vacation, she had a bar of chocolate for each of them when she came home. When they all go to Jollibee in Cabuyao, my mother, who is never without a Jollibee GC, treats them for a Chicken Joy each or a large order of French fries that they will share. When pancit (noodles) or sinukmane (rice cake or biko in Manila) is cooking in either of the houses of Ate Oma, Inang Patreng or Inang Deleng, a plate automatically lands on our terrace where all of them will share.

Theirs is not a perfect relationship. They debate. They argue because they are strong-willed women who have different POVs (points of view). But they don’t cross the line. They remain friends. And that is for life.

They all did not go to school for higher learning but their emotional quotient is so high that the most learned man could learn a thing or two from them about human relations. For example, they go to wakes in the neighborhood because they want the bereaved to feel they are not alone in their loss. Except for Ate Oma, all are widows. To the bereaved they offer words of comfort — solicited or otherwise. Their age has earned them the right to be opinionated. Call it wisdom. They have a lot of that. 

And if needed, they crack jokes at wakes, even if self-deprecating. They also attend funerals because they want to exert extra effort to make their sympathies felt even more. One time, they overdid it when they cried at a funeral of a woman they mistook for someone they knew. But that’s another story. In the neighborhood, they attend padasal, a long litany of prayers said for the repose of the soul of the dead. They also believe that one should check on a bereaved neighbor the morning after the burial of the neighbor’s loved one.

“The morning after the burial is always the saddest of the sad days to come. The morning after the burial is when reality hits you that indeed you have lost a loved one. If you are the bereaved, the morning after is the day of all days that you need a friend, someone to check on you, even offer you food or comfort,” says my mother in the vernacular.

And always, always, the Cinco Marias would always be there to comfort a neighbor in times of mourning. They would remain strong for others.  

Even after the death of Inang Patreng last June, the surviving Marias have remained solid. They visit Inang Patreng’s gravesite on days they miss her. They walk around the cemetery knowing fully that one day it will also be their “home.” They are fearless when it comes to their perspective of death. 

Inang Patreng died on the week of my mother’s birthday. My mother’s birthday wish that year was for Inang Patreng to get well. The Marias visited her in the ICU, sang and danced for her. They updated her on the latest in their lives. My mother made known to the patient that her birthday wish was the restoration of her health. It was not granted. My mother cried. The rest of the Cinco Marias cried. But my mother still thanked God for a life well lived by one of her best friends. She was grateful that she had the opportunity to peel her prawns and put soup in her bowl in the many birthday parties they attended. On the day of Inang Patreng’s interment, the Marias wore white and walked behind her hearse, heads bowed down as silent tears rolled down their cheeks. To this day, my mother “reports” to Inang Patreng almost every day as the newly constructed cemetery in our barrio is just about a 10-minute walk from our house.  

For the remaining Marias, life goes on. These women laugh often. Even when life is not without a challenge, they laugh still. Women their age have that crunch and crisp in their laughter. They laugh so joyfully even the creases on their faces seem to celebrate with them.

When anyone of them needs to see her doctor for a check up, at least one of them will be there to accompany the other. When one is confined in the hospital, expect to see the other Marias to visit the patient. Sometimes they knock at the wrong room. And one time, the two of them went to the wrong hospital. They just laugh at their own follies.

Ordinary women they are. Even their friendship seems ordinary. What makes them extraordinary is their fulfillment of the unwritten rule that they will stick it out with each other even when their option in life seems to be touch and go.

Yes, the Cinco Marias are ordinary women. They are different flowers in a garden of friendship. And they bloom together — in laughter and tears. 

(Happy Women’s Month! For your new beginnings, please e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. I’m also on Twitter @bum_tenorio

and Instagram @bumtenorio. Have blessed Sunday!)