In My Mind (Fiction)

With every small piece of the past scattered around, memories are buried within. My memories, like these, are buried in the moment I went on a trip with my parents—a trip that went entirely wrong. Yet, in pain and disappointment, we often find true joy and lasting impressions. This was one of those bittersweet moments that would forever linger in my mind. As I sit here remembering, the moments are becoming clearer, more vivid than the waters of the high seas. I was in the early years of my youth, just 9 years old. Life was simple then, my concerns were few, and I didn’t worry about the trivial things that now consume so much of our thoughts. I was truly happy, and perhaps that’s why I can recall those moments so vividly, even after more than 15 years have passed.

Excitement had filled my heart the night before, and I woke up the next morning even more thrilled. The reason for my joy was the news my father shared with us during dinner the previous night. We were a family of five—my father, mother, two older sisters, and me. Dinnertime was always lively, the only time we were all together. The aroma of steaming rice filled the air, and the table looked like a carefully tended garden. Dishes were placed in the center, and plates were arranged in a circle around them. My mother always took such care with these little things, and I adored her for it. My father had just returned from a long overseas trip—he had been away for almost five months—so this was our first dinner together in a long time. My sisters, 11 and 16 at the time, were as loud and boisterous as ever, pushing each other around the table like they always did, and still do. Then my father broke the news: he wouldn’t have to travel anymore, and he would be staying home with us. I was overjoyed—I loved spending time with my father, and I couldn’t wait to wake up the next day.

But the morning didn’t turn out as I expected. I saw packed bags by the door and dragged myself down the stairs, half-awake, trying to make sense of what was happening. My father was talking to my mother, and she looked upset. I overheard fragments of the conversation—words like “Why?” and “This is impossible!” and “It’s not fair...” in my mother’s voice. When they noticed me, they stopped talking and greeted me with warm smiles. My father explained that he had to leave again for something very important, but this time, he would be taking me with him. In an instant, I was wide awake. I had finally won something over my sisters—they were always the ones to get such opportunities, but this time it was my turn. That morning, I tasted victory, and I liked it.

My bags were already packed, and my mother helped me wash up and dress for the day. The usual morning routines went by, but this time, I was excited. I waved goodbye to my mother, who stood on the porch as we drove away in my father’s car. I could see her waving vigorously, and I thought she was happy for me. As we drove, our house—once the biggest in the neighborhood—seemed to shrink and fade behind other buildings. New sights emerged: the road stretched out like an endless thread, the sound of rivers gushing beneath us, and the smells of different houses we passed by. Soon, I smelled food, and I guessed it was lunchtime. We stopped at a restaurant along the way and had Indian food. The vibrant colors on the plate and the lively chatter around us fascinated me, especially the sight of a large man battling several plates of rice and curry—eventually, the man won. Afterward, I fell asleep in the car.

When I woke up, it was evening. I saw a city in the distance, lights growing brighter as night approached, and people hurrying home. Cars buzzed by, their headlights flickering in the dark. Memories blur after that, but I recall sleeping soundly beside my father. The next day, we followed the same routine, getting back into the car. We arrived at an airport, and I was awestruck by the sight of enormous airplanes. My first plane ride was terrifying! I felt like some invisible force was pressing down on me, and I was on the verge of tears, but my father held me close. I could smell the faint scent of stale cigarettes and his musky cologne, and I felt comforted. Sometimes, I wish I were a bird, looking down at how small and insignificant everything appears from the sky.

We had arrived in a new land, and I was thrilled. Hand in hand with my father, we ventured into this unfamiliar place. I saw people who looked different—blonde-haired strangers rushing past us. The sights were so new to me that I barely noticed when we reached a large building. Surrounded by towering structures, I felt small. The following weeks were filled with excitement as I explored these massive buildings and marveled at everything around me. As a 9-year-old boy, new places felt like wonders, and I was happy beyond words. Little did I know that this was the place we would call home for the next 20 years.

Looking back now, I realize the things I didn’t understand during that trip with my father. I hadn’t noticed the fight that broke out after dinner, my mind too focused on spending time with him. I didn’t see that my sisters were gone the next morning. I didn’t see the tears in my mother’s eyes as we drove away. I missed the sadness on my father’s face during lunch. I failed to feel the tears that fell on me as my father hugged me on the plane. And I didn’t understand that we had left my mother and siblings behind as we embarked on this journey. I was too young, too carefree, and too naïve to see that my parents were separating. 

Nothing was the same after that day, but I still remember it vividly. With each passing year, I see a new side to that moment, and new realizations emerge. For now, it remains a bittersweet memory—one of the last moments I spent with my father, and the last time I saw my mother. As the band Poison once sang, "Every rose has its thorn"—and they were right.

Finding Happiness.

Happiness is like a packet waiting to be opened. All the years that have passed on my way to becoming an adult have taught me one simple truth: we are truly happy only when we take the initiative and put in the effort to find it. This realization came slowly in my life. When it finally hit me, I hadn’t anticipated it at all. I realized that we often find happiness in the moments when we aren’t actively searching for it. One such experience opened my eyes to things I will never forget. Growing up in a serene country, you never seem to appreciate what you have because it’s always there in front of you. But when it’s gone, that’s when you start to miss and long for it.

I come from a family of three kids, cradled in the unconditional love of our parents and steeped in happiness. Every morning, my two sisters and I would fight over the best piece of toast at the breakfast table. Our cook wasn’t the best in the world, but he always managed to toast one piece of bread to perfection. Time has passed, and now when I’m alone at home, I always get the best piece of bread—but I no longer enjoy it as much because I miss the struggle that came with earning it. In the same way, all the time spent with friends feels timeless, and those memories are precious.

I went to college far from home—hundreds of miles away. It was during this time that my friends and I decided to take a trip to explore the new country we found ourselves in. We left behind our responsibilities and embarked on a journey in a second-hand Toyota Corolla, a journey I will always cherish. The day began with all of us hungover from a party the night before. It was a warm Sunday, and waking up drained half the energy we got from our breakfast of coffee, *pandesal* (local bread), and scrambled eggs. After a slow start, the five of us decided to go out for lunch. We piled into the car and drove to a local restaurant. The food was good, and after we’d eaten, one of my friends suggested going for a ride. We all agreed, and thus began our epic journey to nowhere in particular.

The hot tropical sun of the Philippines beat down on us like an angry beast, but we protected ourselves by rolling down the windows and letting the cool breeze in. This battle with the sun continued until it finally sank into the ocean, its orange glow a reminder that it would return for another round tomorrow. As the light dimmed, we saw new sights. I remember seeing a small child by the roadside picking up trash among stray dogs scavenging for scraps. I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me—I was lucky to be in the car and not on the street like so many less fortunate children. That feeling lasted only a moment, though, as our next stop was a bar by the roadside. The neon lights promised us a good time, and the sight of pretty girls going in and out was enough to lure us in. Beer and food flowed freely, but the same couldn’t be said for the money in our pockets. Buzzed and broke, we left the bar. In my drunken state, I suggested a night drive, and everyone agreed. But in our excitement, we forgot to refuel the car, and before we knew it, the Toyota sputtered to a stop in the middle of nowhere.

At first, we were angry, then we laughed it off, but soon, each of us was lost in our own thoughts as we lay on the ground, gazing up at the starry, moonless sky. Sometimes, alcohol has a way of bringing out clear emotions and thoughts. That was one of those nights. We talked about our failures, our concerns, our pain, and our dreams. We slept uncomfortably huddled together in the car, but that was the best sleep I had during my four years in the Philippines.

The sun, not forgetting the battle of the previous day, woke us up with a vengeance, making our sticky, sweaty bodies feel even worse. The arguments started—someone had to fetch gas for the car, and thankfully, it wasn’t me. When my friend returned with the gas, he looked even angrier than the sun. But once we were on the road again, all was forgotten. Something had changed; none of us wanted to go back. We continued along the winding roads, hoping to reach the end—or at least run out of money first. ATM machines, which had seemed like a luxury before, became a necessity. After restocking our funds, we kept going, stopping whenever we pleased. Our phones were dead since none of us had brought chargers, but it was a blessing in disguise—we were completely cut off from our responsibilities. Cigarette butts flew out the car windows, and we made frequent bathroom stops. By now, we had made peace with the sun, enjoying the warmth from the comfort of the car.

As the week wore on, the weight of our college obligations began to creep back in. On our last night, we emptied our remaining funds and splurged at a nearby beach resort that had been tempting us throughout the trip with its enticing billboards and McDonald’s ads. Amid the tourists who had come to relax, we found a place to go wild. We did nearly everything there was to do, and a few things I’m not proud of—but that’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say, we had a good night.

The real struggle began on the way back. We were almost out of money and had no choice but to drive straight home. Exhausted, we longed to stop and rest, but our empty pockets wouldn’t allow it. The comfortable car ride now felt like a prison, and the songs on the radio, which had once been fun, were so repetitive I wanted to throw the CDs out the window. We passed by the same sights we had seen before, but this time we were tired and irritable. The carefree joy of the trip had been replaced by fatigue and frustration.

We finally reached Manila the next day. The long queue of cars felt like a bottle of emotions waiting to burst. Then, in the midst of our frustration, something caught my eye. I saw a child, no more than 5 or 6 years old, standing by the road. He was thinner than the nearly empty wallets we carried, wearing nothing but a pair of torn shorts. He was stooped over, picking up a piece of discarded paper. My heart sank as I watched him carefully dust it off. The paper was a fast food wrapper, and he examined the tiny bits of food stuck to it as if they were treasures. I rolled down the window, intending to give him some money, but he didn’t even glance my way. Instead, he ran to the side of the road, where an even smaller child lay on the pavement. With bright eyes, the little girl took the paper from him and licked it clean with such delight. Tears filled my eyes. I hadn’t even noticed the honking of the driver behind us. I closed my eyes and thanked God for the life I had been given.

We reached home, four hours away from that scene in Manila. I took a shower, grabbed some food from the fridge, and collapsed into bed. As I lay there, I started thinking. I was lucky—lucky compared to many, to so many. That trip was three years ago, and now, looking back, I’m glad we went. I struggled with my college attendance afterward, but it was worth it. It was a spontaneous adventure that brought me closer to my friends. The conversations we shared have bonded us in ways nothing else could. And most importantly, that trip made me grateful. I have heat in my room, water to drink, a roof over my head, and food to eat. 

Happiness is everywhere—in the walks we take, in the clothes we wear, in the food we eat, in the friends we have, and in the life we are given. As I said, happiness is like a packet—however small or insignificant—just waiting to be opened.