Edwin Samaniego

There was once the quiet call of a desperate man—a faint echo in the solitude of a small apartment in Florida. Edwin Samaniego sat by the window, the late afternoon sun slipping through the blinds, drawing golden stripes across the worn carpet. In the distance, he could hear children laughing somewhere in the neighborhood, yet inside his room, silence pressed heavy against his chest.

“How,” he asked softly, “could a man be abandoned and left for dead?”
He looked at his reflection in the glass. “Is God praised and celebrated by the ghosts?”

At sixty-three, Edwin felt confined—trapped not by walls, but by time and distance. The digital world had become his only audience.



Edwin often thought about how humanity had changed. Once, people gathered in plazas, chatted over fences, or met by chance in markets. Now, everyone sat motionless, heads bent toward glowing screens. Conversations had been replaced by “likes,” laughter by emojis, and warmth by pixels. The irony was not lost on him: humanity had never been more connected—and yet, more alone.

Every morning, Edwin logged into his social media accounts. It was a habit, perhaps even a ritual. A few friends—old neighbors from Pampanga, former coworkers, and cousins—would react to his posts. He smiled at the familiar names. But beyond that circle, he saw a sea of strangers, each curating their happiness, each projecting perfection.

He had seen the danger of it—the illusion of belonging. People built kingdoms online, where they were admired and adored, but when the screens went dark, they found themselves alone.

Some, like Justin Bieber, had turned that illusion into reality. Others, like the founder of the Huffington Post, had built empires from their keyboards. But for most, including Edwin, the virtual world was a fleeting comfort, a shadow of real connection.



Edwin had no desire to chase fame. “What would I do with ten thousand followers?” he’d ask his niece, Maricel, during their video calls. She worked as a nurse in Sydney and often worried about his health.

“I’d rather have ten real friends than ten thousand strangers,” he’d add, smiling faintly.

His posts were simple—photos of sunsets, coffee mugs, or the orchids blooming on his balcony. Sometimes he shared an old memory, a song, or a quote from one of his favorite books. “It’s my way of saying I’m still here,” he explained once. “A thumbs-up to my family ten thousand miles away.”



Three years earlier, Edwin had returned to the Philippines. Manila greeted him like an old friend who had aged badly—still familiar, but weary and crowded. He wandered through the streets of his youth: the university where he studied, the small eateries where he once spent long afternoons with classmates, the busy underpasses filled with vendors shouting prices over the roar of jeepneys.

But this time, his knees betrayed him. Each step up an elevated train platform felt like climbing a mountain. One Christmas Eve, at a Jollibee in Luneta, he found himself stuck at the bottom of a staircase, unable to climb to the counter. A young crew member noticed his struggle and brought his meal down to him.

“Salamat, iho,” Edwin said, his voice thick with gratitude—and shame. There was a time he could run those stairs without breaking a sweat. Now, pain reminded him that the body has its limits, no matter how youthful the mind remains.

That night, in his modest hotel room, he promised himself that next time he returned home, he would buy a car—no matter how cheap. Freedom, he thought, was worth any price.



In Pampanga, he stayed mostly inside their old family house, surrounded by the faint scent of wood and dust. The house creaked in the evenings, like it was whispering memories. His nieces and nephews would drop by when work allowed, offering rides or meals. He cherished their company but never wanted to impose.

Back in Florida, life was simpler. He could drive to the park, walk to the grocery store, or watch the sunset by the beach. Yet, the ache of homesickness lingered like a low hum.

He dreamed often: of driving through the streets of San Fernando, visiting the markets of Lubao and Guagua, buying fresh vegetables and fish to cook his favorite meals. He could almost smell the tang of vinegar from adobo simmering on the stove.

“I’ll cook again,” he would tell himself. “Just like when I was young.”

Sometimes, he imagined gathering his old classmates—those still alive—and taking them out for a night of laughter and music. Maybe they’d visit a quiet bar in Angeles or a seaside restaurant in Zambales. He imagined himself driving, the radio playing softly, and his heart light again.



Yet, reality sat beside him like an old, patient friend. His sister was gone, his health was fragile, and his savings modest. He knew the floodwaters that often hit Pampanga, the brownouts, the bureaucracy that made it hard for retirees like him to use their Medicare abroad.

Still, hope flickered. In his dreams, Edwin wasn’t the man with aching knees. He was the young runner who could chase buses, laugh with friends, and climb stairs two at a time.

When he awoke, he would sit by the window, open his laptop, and post something simple:
A photo of the morning sky.
A line about gratitude.
A quiet message that said: I’m still here.

And though the world might scroll past it, someone, somewhere—perhaps a cousin in Pampanga or a niece in Sydney—would smile, knowing that Edwin Samaniego was okay.
2025-10-11 03:25:14
popong