MILES AWAY

By Andrea Guachalla

The last days of November have arrived. Winter is starting, and with it, windy days are expected in Vienna.

I’m walking on the street with my boots totally unable to keep the cold pavement from freezing my feet. “Never mind.” I think. It’s only a five-minute walk to get to the cozy, warm place where I live. 

Days became routinary in a good sense, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t get home exhausted from three and a half hours of learning German every day. At the end of it the only thing I can think of is food.

I get to the door and grumpily take my hands out of my pockets to the freezing cold and open the lock. Once in I mechanically check the mailbox, the same way I’ve been doing for the past several weeks. I’m waiting for an important stack of documents from Bolivia, but somehow I know they won’t be there today. Because it’s been the same way every day.

However, against the odds, I find a brown package that looks like it’s been through a long, long trip to get to this corner of the world. I take it carefully not allowing myself to think it’s what I’ve been waiting for.

The sender’s address says Bolivia! Happy surprise! 

I sprint through the stairs, suddenly energized and warmed by the surprise. I open the lock of the apartment, take off the layers of winter clothes I have on, and then reverently take the package with both hands and walk slowly to the kitchen as if there was a risk of it falling and disappearing forever.

I’ve waited so long for this mail that I can’t decide if I should open it immediately, or I should make a ritual with candles and incense around it before.

“Don’t exaggerate,” I tell myself as I often do when I find myself overthinking over simple things. I assert only to speak a short prayer: “Thank you, Lord.”

There are scissors in the drawer right next to me, so I take them and without further ado, I just open it (carefully obviously). A huge plastic bag in there has a thick pile of papers, and documents representing years of hard work, perseverance, and of course patience on behalf of the person who took months to collect all of them.

“Great!” I can’t keep myself from yelling. I allow myself to do so because I know nobody is listening and I hastily go through all the papers to ensure everything is there, but… Something catches my attention for a second and then for the rest of the day: It’s a colorful corner sticking out of the plastic bag. It looks different to all the rest, and it’s smaller too. 

When I take it out I notice a stack of five photographs. I see all of them with delight and an unknown feeling settles in my heart. There they are, my sisters and I sitting on the couch with our Sunday dresses sixteen years ago, another picture with some of us playing in the yard, and there is a big picture of our last family trip. It feels like a fantasy, like someone else’s lifetime.

But it is me, it is us.

I rush to my room with all the pictures to find a special place on the bare withe walls for them. But something makes me stop before I even get to the door. Perhaps it’s my imagination but I think I saw a small piece of paper falling to the floor. 

I look back and there it is, laying on the wooden floor. I lean in to pick it up and trash it. But… There is something written in there. A secret message:

“Just know, wherever you go,
you can always come back home.”

The message is not signed nor has any name on it, but I know who wrote it. I know not only because we used to sing together that sweet song whose lyrics included those sentences, but also because her name is everywhere.

When I listen to a nice song, there it is. When I play the piano, there she is. When things go well she’s the first one I would call. When things go wrong, her name is the first one I look for on my phone. When I get anxious about anything I can listen to her voice singing: 

“Calm down,
Deep breaths
And get yourself dressed instead
of running around.”

I can listen to her saying in her own words that if I’m anxious is because of the “details in the fabric.” Which means that if I’m shocked by life it’s the fault of faulty manufacturing. In those circumstances I must know my name, that’s what she says.

Yes. I’ve waited for the thick stack of papers for weeks on end, but this small piece of paper means much more than all the rest. It means that no matter where I go or for how long, I can always come back home to her side, to enjoy her sweet company and endless talks.

It means that the earth and the sun are “93 million miles” away from each other, but that doesn’t stop the sun from warming our blue planet, and it means that Naomi and I might be 6800 miles away from each other, but that cannot keep me from saying: 

“Happy birthday, 
my beloved sister. 
Know your name. 
Know that you’re my home, 
and “I am yours.””