Aling Minda, a gentle woman with kind eyes, moves quietly about the kitchen, preparing breakfast for her beloved daughter.
Pina, her only child, lounges by the window, eyes half-closed, listening to the birds without a care in the world.
"Pina, my dear, would you help me sweep the floor and wash the dishes today? It would make me very happy,"
"Oh, Nanay, I already know how to do those things. Let me rest a while longer. You always worry too much,"
Aling Minda[/@ch_1] coughs weakly on a woven mat. A clay pitcher of water sits untouched by her side, and the air feels heavy with concern.]
Aling Minda's once-bright face now looks pale and tired, her body too weak to rise.
"Pina, please, could you cook porridge for me? My strength is gone,"
Pina, distracted by a game outside, hastily pours rice and water into a pot but soon forgets it, laughter drifting through the doorway.
The scent of burnt porridge fills the air, and Pina sheepishly brings the charred meal to her mother, averting her gaze.
Pina[/@ch_2] finds herself alone with the chores. The house is silent except for the clatter of pots and the occasional call of a mourning dove.]
Day after day, Pina struggles to manage the household work, her patience wearing thin.
"Nanay, where did you put the matches? I can't find the ladle either,"
Aling Minda sighs, frustration flickering in her eyes as she listens to her daughter's constant questions.
"Oh, Pina, I wish you had many eyes so you could see everything and stop asking me where things are,"
Aling Minda[/@ch_1] sits anxiously by the door, calling into the darkness.]
"Pina! Pina, where are you? Please come home,"
No reply comes. The wind rattles the bamboo walls, and loneliness settles in.
Morning brings no sign of Pina. Days pass, and Aling Minda, now recovered, searches the village, asking neighbors in vain.
Aling Minda kneels beside the plant, her heart aching with sorrow and curiosity.
She tends to it with care, watering and shielding it from harm, watching as the fruit grows larger and more peculiar.
One day, she recognizes the pattern—eyes everywhere, just as she had wished for Pina.
Aling Minda weeps quietly, her tears watering the soil as she remembers her final words to her daughter.
"Forgive me, my child. If only I had been more patient,"
She names the fruit Pina, honoring her lost daughter. As the story spreads, people come to know the pineapple, its many eyes a reminder of love, regret, and memory.
