Near the entrance of the Phoenix Zoo, I stopped to watch a group of turtles fighting for space on a wobbly log. Every time one tried to climb up, the whole thing tilted, sending the others scrambling to steady it again. It was funny, chaotic, and strangely familiar, like watching a tiny community negotiate life together.
And just like that, my mind slipped back to Manila.
I blame my ever‑eidetic memory for how sharply those moments return. I remembered the floods that came with every heavy rain, the way water crept into our home until it felt like we were living inside a giant aquarium. Fish swam past our furniture, catfish, tilapia, gourami, mudfish, and once, even a turtle. It was the first time we ever had one inside the house. I tried to catch it, thinking it would be slow and harmless, but it snapped at me with surprising speed. After that, I decided turtles were better admired from a distance.
Standing there at the zoo, watching these turtles balance themselves on a log, I felt that familiar mix of nostalgia and humor. Manila’s floods were inconvenient, messy, and constant, but they also brought unexpected discoveries. New species drifting through your living room. Neighbors becoming your closest friends. Childhood shaped by the strange and the ordinary blending together.
It’s funny how a simple scene in Phoenix, a few turtles on a log, can transport me across oceans and decades. Memory has its own way of reminding me that no matter how far I’ve traveled, Manila still rises to the surface.
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