My father came up to tell my mother that a boy had died in Nestani, my mother’s home town in Greece. Do you know him, my father asked. Sitting in the other room, I felt my whole world solidify into a prayer, please not you. Getting up from bed, my mother’s eyes reached mine and asked if I had remembered him, the man with the photographs. Relief held my hand in that moment but could not tempt my heart and mind from reeling, we don’t have that much time left.
The man who died was someone I had only met for mere moments and yet he was memorable. He had a drug addiction, his father had been the owner of a cafe that closed years back but most importantly, he was an artist. He saw beauty in this world and my soul knew that, recognized him and remembered.
To think that some random girl many miles away can hold his memory dear makes my heart soften.