Our parents

“Right at this time my friends must be getting to Orlegi’s”, I hear Modesto say to his wife in the kitchen.

I check the time on the computer. It’s noon here, 8 PM in the Basque Country. I’m just around the corner in the living room, but I know he’s looking at his watch and wishing he was in Berriz too, having a drink at the bar with his mates. And my friend’s parents just arrived on Tuesday for a six-week stay!

I can’t help but smile as I listen to the conversation going on in the kitchen, a conversation I know by heart from all the times my parents have come to visit me. Just swap Orlegi for Txutxi, and there you go.

I took them out for coffee this morning, then they twisted my arm for about two seconds after I drove them home, so I stayed for lunch. Other than being a bit taller, they feel the same as my mom and dad: easy-going, fun, caring. The mom had the house sparkling clean five minutes after arriving from the airport. As I drove away to pick up my kids from school, I saw the dad fixing the kitchen door, broken since my friend moved in nine months ago.

They don’t know it yet, but I am adopting those parents until I see mine again.

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