She stands at the corner of the Quiapo Church,
beneath the gold domes and the shouting preachers,
wearing her whole livelihood on her head—
a tower of woven hats,
balanced like history.
Wide-brimmed straw,
tourist visors,
baseball caps with Boracay or I ❤️ Manila stitched in sun-faded thread.
Ten. Maybe fifteen.
Stacked so neatly it looks like an offering to the sun.
Her name is Aling Remedios,
seventy-two, though she laughs when asked.
“Only God and my knees know the real number.”
She’s been selling hats since Marcos was still on calendars.
Same spot.
Same grit.
Rain or shine, she is there—
bare feet in tsinelas,
floral daster fluttering in the dust,
a plastic stool tucked beneath one arm,
a plastic bag of boiled saba bananas tied to the other.
She weaves between jeepneys,
calls out to sweating students,
softly but with weight:
“Sun so strong, hija. Pang-iwas init. Fifty lang.”
She speaks like she’s handing out protection, not products.
And maybe she is.
Some ignore her.
Some bargain.
Some take a photo and leave.
But once in a while,
a foreigner buys three,
a mother buys one for her child,
a stranger gives her an extra ten pesos—not as charity,
but tribute.
When she tires, she sits on her stool,
removes the stack like a queen lowering her crown,
wipes her forehead with the edge of her dress,
and eats her banana slowly,
watching the city roar past her like a jeep with no brakes.
She does not beg.
She does not complain.
She sells shade.
She carries weight.
She endures.
Because in this country of blazing heat and harder days,
Aling Remedios wears her struggle with balance.
One hat at a time.