9861 Days Old
Pictured: Felip Neri Square overlayed with a sketch photographed at the Picasso Museum.
When the clock struck midnight on February 23rd, I was sitting on a park bench outside of a fast-food place in Barcelona. My phone had died. I was not worried about who would text me first on my birthday. These things don’t matter as you grow older.
I was tired, but I could feel the happiness that the upcoming days were bringing with them. My friend asked me how I felt. I felt nothing in particular and everything all at once.
I’m not 27 years old. I am 9861 days old, for I’ve lived every day intensively, and I’ve lived days that have felt like years. I’ve shown people the best and the worst versions of me and I’ve wished I could erase the memory of me from people’s minds countless times.
There’s a warmth that comes with aging. It resembles the hand of a lover on your head who wants you to stay in bed for a bit longer.
The mirror gets clearer with every passing year and for the first time, you see yourself in your full glory. The way God intended you.
The Catalonian sun shines through me for the next 3 days, and the love of the city fills my every pore. Late-night talking and cups of the most delicious cortado in the morning. I don’t want my cup to ever come to an end. But it does, just like our days in the city do.
Barcelona my love, I vow to return to you. I need you to vow that you’ll keep my memories, for I’ll look for them when I come to wander your streets again.
Thank you for reading.
