Something you had and no longer have. The presence of someone, which you will no longer have. The feelings that flood you as a consequence of that absence. It hurts.
My head aches a bit. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t had enough water this morning, or the cold winter air amid this climate change mess, or because I haven’t had coffee yet. Or if it’s pain.
Her name was Judith. She was one of my mom’s sisters. She led a social project for over 20 years. I heard her tell the story of that initiative countless times. It always had the same effect to hear the part where the children she had gone to see for a study told her, «you come, you hear us talk, and you leave without doing anything.»
It started with a shelter for girls, boys, and adolescents (NNA in Spanish) at risk. To simplify the explanation, with changes in the government, the shelter became a residential center.
I volunteered there but also worked officially with her. That’s how we got to know each other beyond family ties.
Once, exhausted and confused by social injustice, I asked her what gave her strength when she saw there was no way out. Then she quickly said, without explanations: «faith.» We looked at each other, smiled, and hugged.
These last two years, I revisited the project. Trying to shape a musical and educational initiative, we sat down on several mornings to discuss. And as she always did at the end of each meeting, she thanked me and gave me a hug.
«Lindo» (meaning «beautiful» or «handsome»). That’s what she called me several times in my recent visits and video calls when talking to my mom. Although it made me blush, and I didn’t know how to respond, it was a word that made me feel good.
Sitting once again at the table, discussing the project, she told me she was proud of me. So I said, «No. I am proud of you, of your work. Of the impact of your work. I am grateful.» Because seeing her example, I have understood that even if I look to the past and don’t like it, with faith, I can open a better path for myself.
Ave Migratoria 