a taxi ride

I had just finished chewing out my taxi driver for the high price of a ride from the airport - which was a mistake, it wasn't his fault, the company set the standard price, i knew it and i know, i know, i shouldn't have.  I blame my hunger and my intense lack of sleep - I hadn't slept a wink the whole night, in bed or on the plane, and my head hurt like hell, and traveling wasn't feeling very fun any more.  In fact, I blame my lack of sleep for the whole business.

After a lengthy and not-particularly-amicable silence from me, the taxi driver spoke up.  "From Manila, ma'am?"

"No, Davao."  Another grumpy silence, and he tried again.

"Your first time in Iloilo?"

"Yes," I said, and paused.  "But my grandfather is from the area."

"Ah, whereabouts?"

I faltered.  "I... I don't actually know."  Another pause, and I blurted out, "He's dying."

I fell back into silence, now more shocked than sullen, completely surprised by myself.

"Are you coming back for the funeral?"

"No," I said, and swallowed.  "He's back home in the states.  And I'm here," I said, and laughed a little, except suddenly I was crying, too, and that was another surprise.

And I was still talking and I didn't know why.  "He's back in America and I'm here and I'm worried," I choked out, "I'm worried I won't get to say goodbye," and suddenly I was sobbing.  The driver didn't say a word, but he might have given me a sympathetic glance or something, I don't know, because I wasn't looking.  I was staring down at the plush red seats and saying to myself, "Breathe, Camila, breathe.  This isn't productive at all."  And crying.  Still crying.

8 am, Friday morning, my first day in Iloilo.