MANILA, Philippines ? She's someone I haven?t thought about in decades, a name that now and then haunts guilty nooks of my memory. Menchie (not her real name) is the friend I couldn?t keep, the promise I didn?t deliver, the opportunity for grace I threw away.

Her mom entrusted Menchie to me on the very first day I stepped into college. Why she chose me among the hundreds of wide-eyed girls swarming that school corridor, I haven?t quite figured out to this day.

I can?t remember how her mom looked anymore, but the girl she thrusted towards me made a vivid impression. Pony-tailed, fair-skinned, almond-eyed, slightly-built. With a pretty face?broken by a harelip.

We were both 16 and belonged to the same English Journalism class, girls? section.

?Please take care of Menchie,? the woman implored. I must have said ?Yes,? for she smiled gratefully before heading for the stairway. I took the girl?s hand and started to small-talk. She answered in a hollow, smothered voice. I couldn?t get half of what she tried to say.

I tried to keep my promise for a few weeks. Menchie and I sat together in class, drank Coke together, went home together. We were mostly silent, however, while all around us was a flurry of girl talk, laughter, and banter. I was anxious to make more friends and tried reaching out to other girls. But we were pariah together?Menchie and I. Nobody else wanted to come near.

Little by little, I extricated myself from Menchie. Unloading the ?monkey on my back,? I made way for more exciting, ?with-it? friends. I joined a cool group of giggling Elvis Presley fans, then the college sorority, later the Circulo Literati. When I was firmly ensconced in college society, it didn?t occur to me to try to draw Menchie in.

I?d meet Menchie in class, say ?hi,? then walk on. I tried to ignore her ?little-girl-lost? look and let my promise to her Mom go hang. Before the semester ended, we submitted an essay in English class. Professor Policarpio read aloud a few she found notable?including Menchie?s and mine. I submitted a piece about my mother?actually a take-off from my own dad?s tribute to Mom on her recent birthday (those were the days I plagiarized shamelessly). Menchie?s essay was a cry for help, friendship, and compassion. It harangued a cruel world of selfish, insensitive adolescents. Her words?for once crystal clear?spoke directly to me, and I felt a jab on my chest.

The next day, I avoided?more studiously than ever?looking at her.

The following semester, Menchie did not enrol. She was unheard from ever since.

Decades later, I ask myself: what would have happened if I hadn?t let Menchie down? Would it have changed her life? Or mine? Or does a life once lived need not be altered at all?

Some things I know now I couldn?t have known then. For example?that nothing takes place by chance but rather always for a purpose. God gave Menchie to me and me to her. Why I turned my back on her?that happened for a reason. The guilt and shame (mine) and the loneliness and pain (hers)?those couldn?t have been wasted too.

I haven?t really unravelled all the strands and snags of my life?but I am getting there. I can now manage to smile as I attempt to figure it out. You see, I know one other thing now that I am older. And it is that ?underneath every circumstance is a treasure; within every condition, a blessing.? Menchie and I actually blessed each other, and we continue to do so.

What could I tell Menchie if I met her now?

Well, I could tell her I have six grown children?to whom I try to impart lessons from my bittersweet life, hoping against hope they might leap-frog over the ?bitters.?

I could tell Menchie that one lesson I?ve tried to pass on to my children is NEVER, EVER to spurn an opportunity to make friends with someone with a lost look, almond eyes, and a pretty face broken by a harelip.

The author writes, as annamanila, about the joys and jitters of growing old in http://ode2old.blogspot.com