Flash Memoir

Life Goes On and On and On

I left the house in a fit this morning, the usual tampo over small things— daughter's nagging, son not answering my calls. It wasn’t worth the harsh words exchanged, but I feel my old age is to blame for the fuss. I needed air movement, somewhere other than the walls of my daughter's condo unit that have begun to feel like they’re choking me. So I shuffled out the door, leaving my cane behind for no good reason other than pride, and headed toward the park.

I remember when this place was a vast, grass field with only a scattering of small buildings around. Bonifacio Global City has long outgrown my memory. Now, where there was once cogon, glass-and-steel towers are gleaming, stretching high against the Manila sky. Gentrified, polished, organized, almost too perfect. It’s a place for people with money, people who walk quickly and talk into tiny devices just as I converse with mine occasionally. The park itself at Bonifacio High Street is a walkable green square in this concrete jungle. The air here is a touch cooler and some unoccupied benches exist under more lush foliage if you know where to find it.

I settled down on a bench beneath a wide, leafy tree, where the shade was soft and the sunlight filtered through in dancing shapes on the ground and through the slits of the long table. I closed my eyes, letting the faint sounds of birds and traffic hum in the distance. From where I sat, I realized just how this has now become a pastime, me just watching the world go by.

The first person I noticed was a young woman, no older than thirty, briskly walking past me with a stroller. She wore large sunglasses, and her phone was held in one hand, positioned carefully so she could scroll with a single finger. The stroller seemed like an afterthought, bobbing along to the rhythm of her other hand’s swipe. A toddler peeked out from the canopy, probably watching the world with huge, unblinking eyes, her tiny face serious and solemn. Does its Mom know how much she’s missing, staring at her screen instead of marveling at her toddler's wonder?

A little farther on, a group of young men were laughing, their heads thrown back in a way that reminded me of my barkada in younger days. There’s something timeless about the way boys laugh together, as if they’re invincible. They looked like they had all the time in the world, which I know is fiction, but it made me smile. One of them was bouncing a basketball, tapping it against the pathway with a steady rhythm that felt like the heartbeat of the day. I wondered where they’d be in a few decades, if they’d still find time to banter like that.

Just past the boys, an elderly couple strolled arm-in-arm. Their hair was white and thin, their steps cautious but steady. They were wrapped up in each other, speaking softly, lost in their own world. For a brief moment, was I jealous? Regretful? I pushed my feelings aside. It’s easy to look back and say “if only,” but that doesn’t change the present. The years have a way of just passing on until one day, you’re left counting memories instead of days.

Then came the joggers—a group of young adults, zipping past me in bursts of bright colors, their breaths heavy, chests rising and falling in steady rhythm. I watched as they pushed themselves forward, one step at a time. There was something reassuring about their effort, a reminder that life goes on, steadily forward, even if you stop and decide to merely watch from the sidelines. Some of them nodded at me as they passed, a quick, respectful acknowledgment that I returned with a smile.

A trio of bubbly young girls were giggling as they walked by, schoolbags slung over their shoulders, their heads close together. I caught snippets of their conversation until they faded—crushes, the best online shop, homework. Refreshing, innocent, and far from the worries I now carry. I felt some tenderness for them, and wished their days could stay light and easy a little longer.

Later, a dog trotted up to me, its leash held by a teenage boy wearing headphones. The dog, a handsome Shih tzu with wagging tail and eyes partly covered in fur, sniffed at my sandals. I reached down to pat its head, and it responded by leaning in, pressing against my legs in that warm, trusting way animals do. The boy noticed and pulled his headphones down, giving me a shy smile.

“Cute dog, what do you call him?” I asked, scratching the dog behind the ears.

“Thanks, po.” he replied. We chatted briefly, he told me his dog’s name was Miko, that it is five years old, that it prefers the leftovers his Mom prepares rather than dog food. He left me with thoughts about the new world these kids live in.

I watched the light change, the shadows shortening as noontime approached. But I simply moved to another bench, where I can still be kept under some shades. People continued to pass by, each carrying their own small world, each on their way to somewhere. I watched them as if I were watching time itself—every stage of life, from the tiny toddler in the stroller to the elderly couple, we all just move along in our rhythms. I felt peaceful, and in my peace, I felt a knot loosen inside me; I hadn’t even realized it was there.

When I finally stood to leave, I felt lighter. My grumbles, my frustrations—they felt so petty. I made my way back home slowly, still watching the buildings, this towering symbols reaching for the sky. There’s something comforting in these towers. Even if I no longer recognize parts of this place, even if I feel out of step with the pace of life here, I can still be in it. Time moves forward, but as I pause, sit, and look around, I'm more aware that everybody is a transient element in this landmark. We can be simply here or not at all.

Back at my doorstep, I paused before pressing the doorbell. I took a deep breath, inhaling remnants of the park in my imagination, people and moments that had somehow stitched themselves into my day.

The door opened. "Sa'n kayo galing? I was worried!" my daughter frowned.

Feeling a bit lighter, I almost replied, "I just watched another soul pass through." (Doc Edwin De Mayo)

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