It was a day like many others, I came home and knocked at the door of my parents that were living on a different floor of the building.
I only wanted to say hi.
My mother was making some financial calculations for the company she and my father owned.
The light of the sun dimmed slowly in the background, hiding behind the hills in a slow motion dusk.
It was summer and it was hot.
She was in the kitchen, and my brother wearing a light shirt was drinking some cold water.
Her eyes glanced upon me when I entered (my brother opened the door) and smiling she told me “I found your poem for me again”.
She didn’t lost it, but she treasured inside a small box.
The paper was a little bit wore off, showing the signs of the time.
And there it was, my poem. The one I wrote many years ago when I tried to learn how to write them.
I read it again, and instantly realized that it was full of emotions, full of promises, full of the love of a boy, the hidden love of a man.
It was struggling and beautiful, not beautiful in a sense that the poem deserved popularity, but in a intimate sense.
It had a deep connection, and although it was not a piece of art, it was my best and it was still good.
She said to me ” It was so beautiful ” and I understood it. She was right.
And it was beautiful not because of the writing, but because it was a sincere dedication to the love between us.
That day I realized that words can stay in time, and from that day on I started writing more words, not for me, but for the people around me.
Words expressing my feelings and my wishes for them, because I hope one day we’ll all open that small box, in the dim light of the dusk, and remember the good old times telling us that we too, experienced the beauty of life.