Driving through Phoenix one afternoon, I noticed a crowd gathered in a parking lot. Curiosity tugged at me, so I turned in. It was a car show, rows of polished classics glowing under the Arizona sun, but the one that stopped me was a towering monster truck, massive enough to make everything else look small.
The moment I stood in front of it, something inside me shifted. I wasn’t just looking at a truck, I was suddenly a kid again in Manila. I remembered invited by our neighbor to watch a monster truck show at Rizal Memorial Field. Those trucks flew through the air and landed like bouncing balls shaking the ground. I was amazed, wide‑eyed, and completely taken by the moment. It was one of those childhood memories that stays with you long after life has carried you somewhere else.
Standing there in Phoenix, I felt that same spark, along with the reminder of how different life was back home. In Manila, neighbors weren’t just people living next door; they were part of your story, part of your everyday life. They were the ones who brought you into moments that shaped you.
A giant truck in a parking lot became more than a spectacle. It became a bridge between two worlds, between the child I was in Manila and the man I am now in Arizona.
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