Chapter 7: Childhood Echoes

That year, that day, she was also so beautiful.

I blinked, and for a moment, I was a little boy again—frightened, alone, reaching for a kindness I didn't know I needed.

The adults thought I didn't understand, told me to go play in the park, but I understood everything.

They thought I was too young to know what was happening, but I felt the fear, the sadness, the hope that someone would tell me everything would be okay.

In the cold wind, I sat in the hospital park crying. She came to me.

I sat on the faded plastic bench outside the ER, knees pulled to my chest, the vending machine humming beside me. She wasn't my teacher then—just a stranger, but with a warmth that broke through my loneliness.

Back then, she wasn't as serious as she is now.

She laughed easily, her clothes bright and carefree. She seemed younger, freer—someone who hadn't yet learned to hide behind rules and routines.

She dressed youthfully, with a crossbody bag, chewing bubble gum.

Her shoes were scuffed, her bag covered in pins and patches. She blew a bubble, then popped it, making me giggle through my tears.

When I looked up, she blew a bubble and handed me a piece of gum, too.

She grinned, her eyes crinkling at the corners. I accepted the gum, comforted by the small, silly kindness.

She said, "Hey kid, why are you crying?"

Her voice was gentle, coaxing. She knelt beside me, waiting patiently for me to speak.

I was so young then. I pointed at the hospital, sobbing that my mother was leaving me.

I could barely get the words out, hiccuping with every breath. She listened, nodding, never interrupting.

She immediately understood.

She didn't try to shush me or dismiss my fear. She let me cry, her eyes soft and understanding.

She patted my head, saying I was overthinking it. With such a sweet kid, who could bear to leave?

Her hand was warm and steady. I sniffled, believing her for just a moment.

I kept crying, and she crouched down and hugged me.

Her arms wrapped around me, gentle and safe. I clung to her, letting my grief pour out.

When people are sad, they always long for a warm embrace.

Her hug was the first thing that made me feel safe in weeks. For a little while, the fear faded.

I didn't dare cry in front of adults. I knew my father was running everywhere for my mother's illness, always tightly wound.

I held everything in, afraid to burden him with one more worry. But with her, I could finally let go.

That day, in the arms of a stranger, I cried my heart out.

I didn't care who saw or what they thought. I needed it, and she gave it freely.

She didn't say a word of comfort—she just gently patted my back, the way my mom used to when I was little.

The quiet, rhythmic patting soothed me more than any words could. I closed my eyes, pretending for a second that everything was okay.

I remember the sunlight on her.

It turned her hair gold, making her look like someone out of a storybook.

I remember her faint lavender scent.

It clung to her sweater, subtle and calming—a scent I'd chase for years.

I remember the warmth of her embrace.

It stayed with me, even after she let go. I carried it through every hospital visit, every lonely night.

I remember the taste of that lip balm.

A flavor I could never forget, sweet and comforting, forever tied to her memory.

I'll always remember: after I finished crying, she kissed my forehead and told me that it's okay for a boy to cry if he can't hold it in, but after crying, he's still a man.

Her words became a mantra, one I'd repeat every time I felt weak or alone. She gave me permission to feel, to be human.