Flowers. Young women in white approach the soldiers. Timid smiles, the only indication that they are on opposite sides. The women do not mention the defected officers, they giggle over the morning and flatter the armed men.
The soldiers seem uneasy, their orders conflict with their reception. Their hands clutch guns and "the enemy" clutch flowers and sugared nuts, violence seems absurd. Time unhinges from its steady habit, as indecision mounts. The tanks, surrounded by peaceful citizens, cease to be vehicles of war, instead they are platforms and soldiers rest beside citizens.
A voice draws eyes in the bustle, a priest. He leads them in prayer, thankful for the safety of Enrile and Ramos, and hopeful for a new era in the nation's politics. Implied is a wish for Marcos' departure. Uneasy soldiers murmur along.
A figure cuts through the crowd, burdened dignity marks each step. The widow stops at each soldier and calmly meets his gaze. She does not seek apologies or remorse, she looks for the desire for change. In ever face she finds it.
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