So, I've not been posting much this week because I've been in St. Augustine, Florida with a group of students from Coker College. I am in the International Student Organization's advisor, and I'm here to make sure that they don't destroy the house, that they get a cultural experience outside of Hartsville, and to be a glorified chaffeur of the Coker 15 passenger bus.
Yesterday some of them asked to go to these outlet stores closeby. I went in the Tommy Bahama outlet to see if they had anything......nothing. We got home at around 9:30 at night to find that no one had cooked dinner; they expected me to do it. We had programmed taco salad for dinner, so I reluctantly began cooking it. They seem to expect me to cook for them, in that egotistical way that only young adults can master. These are children of privilege from a different generation than me, but I'm sure that I was the same way when I was younger. I can't get mad and stay mad at them, because I know that I did the same thing when I was younger.
I was a little miffed last night that not a one of them lifted a finger to help me. As I stood over the pan cooking about 10 pounds of ground beef, I began to think about how that cow used to walk around, and then it hit me that my dad had been in and called me from that Tommy Bahama store back in August, two months before he died. He was here one minute, and gone the next. I had trod where my dad had been, not too long ago. So, as I stirred the fleshy remains of some anonymnous cow around the pan, I began to really miss my dad, and I started sobbing, long hard sobs--the kind that make your whole body tremble. I was trying desperately not to have anyone notice, but that was just it; no one noticed. I cooked their dinner while bawling my eyes out, and no one even noticed.
Nuestras vidas son los ríos que van a dar hacia el mar, que es el morir.