Flashing lights and calls of siren rattled us awake on our first night in the rented Boston apartment. Next day, my newly minted roommates decided to bail. These suburbanites didn’t feel safe in the city and called their parents. Our one day landlord was understanding and returned our deposit.
I had one week of school before having to move out of my dorm room. As I was packing up my beat up 86 Ford Fiesta, a friendly upperclassman asked me where I would be spending my summer. I said I didn’t have a place to stay but had secured a summer job in Boston.
She offered her parent’s place in passing. I knew it would be impolite to say yes but I didn’t want to stay with my aunt and uncle who lived an hour away from Boston. There was no way my car would make the daily commute. Her parents agreed, and I moved in with my friend, her Mom, Dad, and older brother for three months. Her mom charged me weekly rent of $25.
It was one of the best summers I’ve ever had, if not the best, hanging out with my friend’s family, going to clubs with my friend and her older brother, working long hours, making friends at work, and having what felt like a safe home to go back to every night.
That was 20 years ago. My friend, Eunice’s mom, also named Eunice, sends me happy birthday email every year. Everytime I see her email address pop up, my heart somersaults. Through the small black letters, I still feel their love across the Atlantic.