A visitation from the past

 Yesterday was objectively a good day in IceCube's terms; I went shopping to the grocery store which I enjoy as it is a simple task I do with my mother at the phone telling me what we need for the week and soon that will be over, then I called my grandma and told her if she wanted to go with me to the "mercadillo"; a popular market of nomads who roam from town to town building "chambaos" (small structures of metal sticks and plastic as ceiling) and usually have good things at a really good price if you know what you are willing to buy and don't let yourself get scammed, to what she responded with a sound yes.

 I left the groceries at home and then walked to my grandmother's house, left there some things I bought for her and we went for the mercadillo with her nurse. I actually had a blast; this person is a colombian woman in her mid to late thirties, funny, energetic and caring with grandma; she takes pictures of her and gramps which are real treasures I will get printed sooner than later. I told her about my fiancée moving real soon, how exciting was to prepare everything, to buy the things, to scavenge for the best deal as the budget right now isn't gargantuan, trying to get quality things not looking for an specific brand and such.

So, we arrived to the mercadillo and my father called telling me something baffling; he saw a man at a chambao who sells clothes with a set of pans for 25 euro without plastics and all that, so I had to visit that, besides my original idea of  just buying new bed sheets.

I went there and the pans were over a plastic cage. It was a bargain, the quality seemed good and, to my surprise, he also was selling bed sheets. I asked for the 100% cotton ones and he offered me some quality ones from the spanish brand "cisne rojo", and I bought two sets. The problem was I didn't have enough physical money, I was 5 euros off. The man told me that he trusted I would come back with the remaining euros, that my face was more valuable than those, and I kinda took that personal in a good way. I went back after asking gradma for the remaining money willing to get it back to her as soon as I was able to go to the bank, but she just gave me a 10 euro bill, nothing else.

I went back and the man said "you really are stubborn, ah?" to what I answered "yes, yes I am". We both laughed and he gave me a handshake, and I went back to grandma, happy of my 15 euros below the official purchasing price deal. She was focused on getting a lemon, but not an ordinary lemon, it had to be a small lemon.

Afterwards, we went to their house, where I had the chance to spend some spare time with gramps alone. We didn't talk about anything in particular. I even got myself to read something at the phone while I was there, but there was something different. I was able to enjoy the warmth and the presence more fully, to get back into the conversation soon and to enjoy him, even within my on and offs. Then grandma and the nurse came back and I went home.

As it was a special day, to celebrate I bought myself a pickle jar, a rabbit and a cider, as I do not usually drink alcohol (almost never do), and a Paulainer for dad. 

I ate some pickles alongside a bit of local-made chorizo (raw curated meat) and a sandwich of fresh bread and a tuna can. A meal for a champion, if you ask me.

So, the day went by and I tried to go out with some friends but everyone was saying no. I had an idea, to write to an old friend of mine at 21:30 h to see if he would answer back after 2 years of sudden and unexpected silence. He did, so I blasted my way to ask him if he wanted to go out as he seemed to be spending the week at the town. I got dressed and jolted to meet him.

This person was like a brother to me, the person I always saw not as an equal but intellectually superior, an alive persona able to mesmerize me when telling me he was able to speak 6 languages, read 500 page books on a day and was a genius at math, programming and all that. He was quiet, extremely polite, kind to the heart, but really closed about himself. I loved him as much as a heterosexual man can love another. 

We met at high school, and became really close friends when we moved to college. We ended up in the same city and when we came to realize, we were flesh and bone, brothers, we knew so much about each other, we were allowed to be fully ourselves, to make every joke, to speak our minds out, to study, create and enjoy. I loved when we went out at night, like at 1 am on  a sunday as none of us had lessons on monday mornings and we wandered for hours through the city we were in. Those days have a special place in my heart. The brotherhood was real. Both of us being allowed to be just simple men enjoying ourselves with jokes and talking about life, God and the self, were wonderful. Until one day that stopped for good. 

Let me recall before continuing one memory that gets me every time: we were walking at like 2 am and we saw a homeless under a blanket doing weird things and moaning. He asked me if that person was getting a drug dose and then I explained him that that man was masturbating.  

He had to move away and some day he just stopped answering me. He got new people around him. True geniuses, so to speak. And in the meantime I was being crushed by an unresolved illness for the third consecutive year. I was in a really dark period. I had to come back to my hometown, I had no one here. The relationship with my family was bad. The lawfirm had me working hours and losing money because no one was calling.

At first I thought that it was a matter of him being busy, which was a common thing, but as months went by, I started to lose hope. I saw him last summer on the town. He didn't call. I guess he didn't care about me anymore.

And now, two years later, there I was, running like a blaze to greet him.

He also came running. We were in front of the sea. A handshake happened. Then a brief hug. 

And we started walking and talking as if it was yesterday. 

He told me about his life, and I told him about mine. We cracked some jokes (I love the one related to Nelson Mandela inventing the full nelson while he raped his victims of jail. Its kills me every time, and this time he went down for the ful-full nelson, which I'm not going to explain here but I'm laughing about it as I am writing theselines), then went for the politics, life, love, me telling him I want to get married, all that. I was having so much fun. 

He told me that after many years he converted from islam to christianity, that he was baptized. And I wanted to know how and why, as that was a sound event. He told me, and then I told him about my path as a somewhat a syncretic carmelite at heart life of faith. Instinctively I gave him my scapular, the one that many priests blessed, the one I got after my pilgrimage to Santiago, the one that went with me to the tomb of St. Theresa, the one that felt heavy. I wanted him to have it, no matter if he keeps it or not. 

After that, I took a picture of both of us. We said goodbye to each other, and I realized shortly after that the friendship as I knew it was dead. That he wouldn't reach back anymore. That I am off of his geniuses group. That being a jack-of-all-trades, isn't always enough. 

It was a bittersweet way of ending the yuga.

It couldn't have been any other way.

Farewell, my friend. Farewell, Gyro.

Tomorrow awaits.

Thank you guys.