The old man and the bus he never took

The sun was setting and the old man looked longingly at the bus that passed him by. He often watches the dying hours of the day under a tree near the highway, his eyes following the people and vehicles he sees.

"I've never been to Manila," he said. "I've always wanted to see Manila, know what it's like," he said.

"You mean, all this time, you've never taken a bus to Manila?"

"I've never had enough money for it," he said. He was seventy at the time.

And that was the reason I swore I will leave Zambales as soon as I could.

The specter of spending the rest of my life in the province was a monster that always choked me when it entered my head.

And when I did leave, I rarely looked back.

I wanted to see, I wanted to know, I wanted to learn, I wanted to travel. I wanted to own, I wanted to possess, I wanted to live a life far from Zambales. I wanted to make my dreams come true.

I don't know if fear is a good motivator. It did prod me to leave and create a life outside of what I was probably destined, like others who stayed behind: be a wife, have kids, raise them.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. I just believed that I wanted a different life.

I don't even remember the old man's name anymore. I can't recall his face. But I do remember the darkening sky, the highway and how he looked at the buses that passed him by, and the fear he created in me.

I always remember that fear.