On May 3rd, the morning starts slow in Marinduque. The light moves across the town like honey, sticking to the church walls and the narrow streets. Somewhere, a bell rings, and just like that, the day begins.
Santa Cruz Day is not the loudest festival you will ever see. It does not roar through the town with fireworks or drown you in blaring music. It creeps up on you, steady and sure, like the tide. It is a day built on faith and memory, stitched together with old songs and fresh flowers.
The townspeople come early. Some walk barefoot, holding small wooden crosses. Others trail behind the priests and altar servers in processions that wind lazily through the streets. Flower petals fall like lazy snow from the hands of children too young to understand why they are there, but still old enough to laugh when the wind catches the petals and tosses them back into their faces.
At the heart of it all is the cross—not just any cross, but the memory of the True Cross, which Queen Helena is said to have found all those years ago. Here in Marinduque, they remember it the way they remember everything important—with prayers whispered under their breath and food piled high on kitchen tables for when the ceremonies end.
After the processions and the long hours in church, the town shifts into something softer. Families gather under trees and patched-up tarps, eating lechon, pancit, and endless trays of kakanin that never seem to run out. Cousins who have not seen each other in months chase each other around coconut trees. Old women sit in circles, gossiping like they never missed a day apart.
There are no big stage shows, no marching bands trying to outplay each other. Just the hum of voices, the smell of roasted meat hanging heavy in the warm air, and the feeling that everything is right where it should be for today.
[Photo by Jeys Tubianosa]
