Daily TribuneA December story inspired by Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Match Girl,” following a young ice seller seeking escape, comfort, and freedom.
"The Little Ice Boy," digital illustration.
Illustration by Alyssa Oliva for Daily Tribune.
He waited patiently for the cold to come. Patient, like his grandmother had been. Patient, because it was what kept him alive—even until now.
When he used to go to school, he learned from his teachers that December was the coldest month of the year. December was in what they called “winter.” In some countries, it got so cold that ice fell from the sky. Breath became little clouds with each exhale. When he imagined that, he saw his Tatay’s chapped lips, and the yellow, rotting teeth inside. He smelled the smoke from the cigarette, the ash and tobacco that never washed away. But maybe the clouds of winter were white and pure. That ice fell in soft, delicate wisps instead of the plastic bags of ice he sold now on the street on this hot, December morning.
As the little ice boy walked, a Styrofoam cooler hanging from his left shoulder, his face burned red-sienna under the relentless sun. His feet were bare. Each step seared the soles of his feet. He had left home with two slippers, but they were too big. They were his Tatay’s, before Tatay left them to be with a woman who was as old as his Ate. The slippers fell off when he ran from a policeman who scolded him for knocking on the windows of cars stuck in traffic. He could not go back for them. The policeman might arrest him. They lay in the middle of the street, where cars buzzed by and would never stop for someone as small as him. So he walked on, enduring the pain that shot up his legs and the air that scorched him. He ignored the aching in his shoulder from the weight of the cooler and the bags of ice inside.
He had to sell his ice. Sell them all so he could go back to his Nanay and give her the money. Twelve bags of ice, each made from tap water poured into plastic, twisted and tied at the end. Every so often, he lifted the cooler’s lid to inhale the small, fleeting whiff of cold air inside. He closed his eyes and imagined winter. Winter, where there was enough softness to shield him from his life. Winter, where children played and waited for presents he had never received in his eight years.
But he had to close the lid. It was hot. Even in the cooler, the ice slowly melted. Solid blocks became wet and dripping, the plastic soft to the touch. The ice shrank and shrank, but still, he sold none.
He couldn’t go back. Not without sixty pesos to show Nanay. Not after losing Tatay’s old slippers. He feared the beating that would come, and even more, the words that would accompany each paddleboard hit.
“Useless!”
“Burden!”
“Stupid!”
So, despite his fears, when a car stopped at the intersection as the light turned red, the little ice boy knocked again. Through the car’s barely tinted window, he saw the driver dismiss him with a wave and a glare. He watched the driver fiddle with a knob, and the car window fogged with his breath and grew cold to the touch. It was winter inside that car! He imagined stepping inside, feeling that sweet chill, even for a second. But the light turned green, and the car sped away. As if afraid he might chase it and knock again.
The sun beat down on him. Noon approached. The streets grew hotter. Air seemed to bend in dizzying waves. Lights weren’t gentle sunlit-yellow, and instead they blazed orange and red as his eyes spun. He felt his skin itch and crack under the dryness. He risked opening the cooler again, just for one more whiff of cold.
When he shoved his face into the cooler, he closed his eyes. He saw his Lola’s kind face. Felt her hands rake through his hair and wipe the sweat from his forehead. But he opened his eyes, and only melting bags of ice greeted him. Twelve pieces still, twelve that taunted him of his failure, and tempted him with the promise of relief. He imagined drinking cold, sweet water, and immediately felt tears spring to his eyes.
A mother and her daughter passed by. The little girl ate an ice cream cone slowly, savoring each bite. The boy met her eyes, and he thought maybe she did it to make him jealous. In school, children had been cruel like that. They mocked his ill-fitting uniform, his tattered slippers, his single yellowing notebook, his one short pencil only as long as his finger. They showed off black shoes, homemade lunches, and money for ice cream. The little ice boy watched, yearning, never crying, never retaliating. Just patience. Even when he had to drop out from second grade, he kept the patience, and he kept his gaze on the possibility of something better. His grandmother had said patience would give him everything he needed, and more.
But Lola, forgive him! He was not so patient anymore. He sat on the curb, sweating and dizzy. His feet burned and dirtied. His tongue felt like sandpaper. Each cough scratched his throat. He hadn't eaten anything yet, and his stomach growled and hissed. He finally threw open the cooler, not caring if the ice melted. Why should he? No one had bought a single bag since he started ten that morning.
He shoved his face inside. Icy breaths stung his eyes and nostrils in each delightful inhale. He closed his eyes and saw Lola in a pretty blue dress. He saw himself in black shoes, an ironed white polo, and blue shorts. Without realizing, he reached into the cooler with a cracked, dry hand. He pulled a bag, punctured the plastic with his dirty fingernails. Ice water burst over his hands and arms. He laughed. No fear of Nanay’s scolding. He drank, and he imagined playing in winter.
He took another bag and drank again. This time, he saw Lola giving him gifts: notebooks in bright colors, thick white pages lined with red and blue, pencils, pens, erasers. Her cold hands touched his warm, burning cheek. She had plenty of gifts to give him, and the little ice boy finally could have friends to share them with.
His face was now wet. Not just from ice water, but from tears streaming down. Cars still passed. No one looked. No one noticed him. A family exited a Jollibee across the street, plastic bags of food and drink in hand. His stomach rumbled. He was so, so hungry. That morning, he did not wake up to breakfast, not even a measly piece of pan de sal. He woke to Nanay’s shouts, telling him to get up and sell ice, calling him lazy and useless like his Tatay.
So he took more ice. Punctured bags. Dumped cold water over his head. He drank, feeling a full belly of ice water instead of warm, delicious food. He laughed. His thin clothes clung to his small, shivering frame. He shivered not from cold, but from happiness and freedom. Behind closed eyes, he played with Lola in winter, where snow and ice fell abundantly, where nothing melted, nothing had to be sold. Nanay’s shouts and angry fists disappeared, like Tatay’s slippers that never fit him anyway.
Later, the policeman found the little ice boy lying on the street, lips pale and dry, stomach protruding from skinny, visible ribs, with the empty cooler beside him. The policeman would shake his head and say, “He just wanted to get out of the heat.” He would not know that the little boy had died with a smile. That his soul now played with Lola in white clouds, with snow falling, gifts waiting, and ice cream in endless supply. No more heat. No more waiting. No more need for patience. Just freedom.
