A Messenger.

There was an A in Spain. Short. Dark. Filled with energy. Her name means messenger from God.

Filled with opposites, she welcomed me into the Spain she knows, showing me little corners of her home. A young philosopher who stayed up late pondering the world, who stayed up late partying with her friends. Laughing along with me at my mistakes, making some of her own. We shared stories. Maybe it was the sangria, maybe it was the language barrier, but I found myself trying to explain things I had never tried to explain before.

One day she saw me walking down the street. Guitar in hand, she called out, inviting me to join her. She had plans with some old school friends, but saw nothing wrong with me tagging along, though I’d been sick and lost my voice.

She became my voice. Translating. Keeping me in the group. Nudging me to participate.

She left shortly after that afternoon. She was gone for a month. Got sick while away, recovered, gotten her diploma.

We didn’t see each other again until after Christmas.

One afternoon I was standing in the Plaza Mayor. And she called out. And I felt no embarrassment to give her a big American hug followed by two Spanish kisses on the cheek.

Something about A kept me confident. Helped me remember that I was doing fine. The last time we said goodbye, all I could say was thanks.

A.

There was an A in New Zealand. The last time we said goodbye, I didn’t say much of a goodbye.

Her role was similar. Friendly, warm. A reminder that what I’m trying to do, that what I want to do, is possible. Someone I secretly wish I could be more like. Looser. More relaxed. Willing to say what it is that I want to say.

She laughed easily, talked easily, and was friends with everyone. She led the charge, gathering a group to play a game. Gave the orders because no one else would, keeping disaster away from us.

There aren’t many more words that I can give her. She’s good people.