The sun is barely up over the rice paddies of Nueva Ecija, but already the road hums with tricycles, carabaos, and chatter. At the bend near the sugarcane field, an open-air commercial truck lumbers forward, its bed crowded not with cargo—but with schoolchildren.
They are barefoot or in flip-flops, uniforms rumpled, shirts untucked, but eyes sharp with morning.
Plastic backpacks thump against their backs. Some sit on overturned plastic crates, others squat on the metal floor, legs tucked, hands gripping the edge of the truck.
Their laughter rises above the diesel growl. A boy in the back corner hums the “Tayong Lahat ay May Pananagutan” hymn. A girl beside him is eating fried banana from yesterday’s newspaper.
One child holds a broken umbrella—not for rain, but for the sun that’s starting to burn their skin. Another clutches a pad paper with the corners curled, the only notebook she owns.
The wind tangles their hair. Dust coats their arms. But they’re moving—toward school, toward letters and numbers and chalkboard dreams. Some wave at passing farmers. Others rehearse multiplication tables under their breath. A pair of cousins argue about who’ll win the barangay basketball league.
The truck hits a bump—the youngest squeals, the others laugh. The driver honks as he nears the barangay hall. One more stop.
And when they finally arrive, the children hop off one by one, brushing dust from their uniforms,
fixing each other’s collars, grinning like it was the best ride in the world. Because for them, it is. A truck bed filled with dreams, on a road of cracked pavement and hope.