Wednesday 9 AM, 07-09-14

He was my teacher, on a past semester. We had something. It was sad but comforting. He told me about his divorce, and I would listen. I was acting as that friend that you need when you can't trust anyone else.

We had moments.

We both cried. 
It was real and unexpected.

He told me about his son, how he was an engineer and he was accomplishing great things.

And I recalled something I had seen on the news not long ago, it was about a crew of engineers who had found something, or were building something big, and they were celebrating their success. It was somewhere overseas.

Then, later on when I meet him, he tells me his son was one of the founders of the project, but that he had passed away at work, on accident.

I remember him feeling forgotten, that nobody cared about his son, that everyone had forgotten of all the work and effort, and his terrible loss. I felt his heart aching.

He cried, I cried. 

And from his side, I pull him closer to me, to rest his head against my chest. 

...For just a little longer.

He showed me pictures of his son when he was in high school, pictures they had taken together. Both, side by side, smiling, laughing about some funny joke or just tickling each other to get a natural smiling picture. "For the memories" I would repeat in silence.

He has wearing blue jeans, and a red pullover. His hair curling outwards on the tips, that looked like a cascade framing the contour of his face, his son was wearing a uniform, one I could recognized immediately.

I noticed his son had gone to the same high school as me, and for the next three seconds in silence, I fried my brain trying to remember who he was. 

It was a small school, I must have seen him, known him, heard of him.

I wondered if I had met my teacher before and never noticed, because he was too busy being a dad, and I was too busy ignoring the adults.

I don't remember his name, but his last name was Diaz. Which is also not his last name in real life, and he spoke English.

He went on talking about my studies, and how I could make the efforts of my parents worth it, worth me being here, away from them, making them think I am having the time or my life; and he said that the only way to do so, was that I make a few changes.

That even if I was so far away, that I needed to be consistent, and that I had to remember them constantly. 

He suggested me to have a reminder; he said, "when you need to renew your affidavit and your support letters and your endorsement, make copies of those and keep them, just for yourself," and look at them when you wonder where your parents are, or what they're doing, or if they love you or not.

And in that moment it made so much sense. I felt grateful and lucky. I felt confident and loved. I thought of doing that and framing those documents, and to put them in a room where I would see them always. 

Those letters, and the endorsement don't mean anything to anybody, but to me, they mean that I am here, not by chance, not by fate, but because of my parents, who patiently took care of me for as long as they could, and let me fly away to find my own future, and create my own fate. Because they worked hard to let me do this, and to offer me the best. 

Because they gave their whole lives to me, willingly. A gift that I will never be thank them enough for, or give anything in return.

If sometimes I feel down, and lonely, imagine how they feel, and what they are thinking. I wouldn't want them to ache for me, and the only way to know they won't, is by doing something to show them they efforts haven't been in vain.

And then, out of nowhere, I meet my brother, near a park. A huge green park full of hills.

And I start to feel the beginning of a bad allergic reaction, like a rash in ny neck and chest, my hands were itchy, my neck was starting to get red. 

I felt worry, and love.