The Circle of Life in a Jeepney
I couldn’t help but feel happy for the passengers who got on the jeep after my girlfriend and me. It was a father, a mother, and three young children in Halloween costumes. Finding a jeep with enough space for an entire family is a miracle in modern commuting.
The family settled in front of us. The dad had the youngest in his arms, careful not to wake them up as he reached for his fanny pack to pay the fare. The daughter, dressed as a fairy, sat on her mother's lap. She stared blankly at the road, oblivious to the serious conversation her parents were having behind her. Beside the mom sat a young boy dressed as a skeleton. I could tell by his height and contemplative face that he was the eldest.
What caught my attention about them was how “un-parentlike” they looked. As a kid, I thought of fathers and mothers as being these galactic, unchanging entities. But now that I'm older, and some of my friends are becoming parents themselves, I've begun to realize that the parents I was looking at... could very well have been my girlfriend and me.
Of course, they had the added responsibility of having to take care of a few small humans—small humans that they created.
The jeep rattled on for about thirty minutes before it stopped again. An elderly man and woman slowly climbed aboard and squeezed beside me. They didn’t have the bustling energy of the married couple in front of me. Instead, they carried a quiet and gentle demeanor. Seeing them immediately reminded me of my grandparents.
Now, my grandparents weren’t very talkative. Sure, they would have short conversations or little arguments, but for the most part, growing up with them always meant a quiet household.
At that point in the marriage, self-explanation became foreign to them; they knew intuitively what each would do. It was one of the quirks you develop after having spent 50 years waking up beside the same person. I often saw them sitting quietly across from each other in the morning, my grandfather reading the newspaper while my grandmother cut vegetables. When he moved, she followed; when she, he.
I then imagined what it would be like for my girlfriend and me to be in the situation. After a few more decades of being together, what kind of old couple would we become? What habits would we develop? What would commuting look like for us?
I began imagining what kind of future lay before us. There are still so many variants of ourselves that we have yet to meet. Then it hit me.
We were the young couple carrying date ideas in our backpacks. In front of us was a couple carrying one of the greatest responsibilities two people could undertake: raising other human beings. And beside us were two people who, I imagined, communicated in a language cultivated over decades, still navigating life’s challenges after all this time.
We were all in the same jeep, but at different points of the journey.