All I can do is to tightly hug the old diary I owned, for I will leave half of my life today. This diary will hold the memories I had in Lisbon, Portugal—the laughters, the friends I grew up with, and specially the love between my Mom and Dad.
We will head to a very strange place called Madrid. In that way, my Dad can continue his work as an artist, hoping these whole get-away can at least bring his Clara, my Mom, back into what was she were before—back to were we before.
I uncomfortably sit inside our old blue van, right beside the window. Because I wanna savor every details this place has and memorize it, for I don't know if we will still be able to come back here again.
Our belongings are already stacked at the back, when my Mom joined us inside and sat right beside her dear Arthur. Her bronze hair swaying freely as the wind blew by, her face the same as it is, and the only thing gone in her was the smile everyone grew fond of. We never saw that in what seems like a year now—when the fairytale story we have came into a rocky path. With my Dad not being able to sustain us because of his work. A work my Mother loved before and changed as she have understood that that painting would get us nowhere.
They always say to me that I look so much of my Mom—the hair I have, the strokes of my face, literally everything you can name of. The difference only is that I have the same passion as my Dad—arts, filming to be exact.
Holding this diary gave me strength to push back away the tears and start to move on. Adiós, mi Portugal. Hola, Madrid.
"Are you okay back there, sweetie?" Daddy asked me, looking back slightly. The stress in his face will never seem to get away, it's crystal clear in his face how much he have been through.
I just nod slightly and smile a bit, trying to warm up his heart a little. And with that, the four wheels starts to run, the view outside the window frame started to move, and all of my memory drifts away.
I know this trip will be a long one so my eyelids starts to close theirselves and when I woke up, I cannot recognize the view. It came clicking in me later on that this is Madrid. A place where my Dad pictured as a place full of arts everywhere you may land your sight upon, everywhere your feet may go. Madrid.
The van came into a halt of a brick house. Assuming, this will be our new home. Not as big as what we used to have back in Portugal (which my Mom's parents had given), but not as bad as it may seem. We don't need a big white house with a pool and countless guest rooms. We only need a peaceful house that can accommodate and manage to bring us back together.
It is 4:37 in the afternoon when we finally step outside our rusty vehicle. I thought I would be seeing teens around my age, playing outside or at least walking with their friends but no one seems to live in this street—just a couple of houses.
We started to shift our boxes inside the house. I picked up the box with a paper noted with my name—Martina. I love my name. My Dad would often call me 'Martina mi vida', trying to catch my attention throughout the whole crowd after class. It originated from my Dad's mother, Martha, who unfortunately have passed away right before I was born. It is sad because I never got the chance to meet her. Whenever Dad tells me the story of her with my eyes closed, I can tell that she's near us—trying to impose that she have our back always. In fact, I was really astonished when he told me that abuela Martha is the real artist of the family because she is a writer—just like who I wanna be. I wanna write the people stories that would make them feel like they are in another world. And of course I wanna hear them saying 'Martina Argent, the best writer en España'.
My eyes quickly roamed the whole area. The floor carpeted with a nice green color, some old frames right beside an old guitar placed at the wall. It also have a small chandelier. This place is quite impressive, I believe it just needs a little more cleaning drill.
"Do you like it, Martina?" Dad suddenly appeared at my side, holding a box I presumed containing Mom's favorite utensils.
"This place is more than what I expected it to be. It was never the same as our house there but I know I can easily adjust in here as long as I have my favorite guy in the planet" I giggled as I pertained him. You can say that I'm a Daddy's girl.
"Of course I am the best guy in the planet" he starts to flex his right bicep slowly which made me laugh. "We only have two bedrooms. One for us and one for you. Your place will be the room at the right corner upstairs, check it out" he informed me.
"Thanks, Dad. I'll unpack my things upstairs. If I will be in any help here don't hesitate to call me" I said before I head upstairs into my new room.
The door creaks a little when I opened it. The room was painted in a lavender color and is carpeted with a beige one. I placed the box I am holding at the side of the door and roam my space. There is a medium sized bed with three pillows (just how I wanted it to be), a mirror that is way more higher than I am, organizers and frame holders, a brown closet, and a study desk near the window. The window was in lined with an another window from a house near us tho I cannot see if someone's living there. But it would be great if someone would be there, you know casual neighborhood.
I sat in the desk, memorizing the whole new features of my home, and opened my diary—my fingers running through each pages until I came into a stop.
My first day in Madrid.... I wrote.
Madrid is an unfamiliar space for me but if it's for my parents, I'll gladly stay here. I hope that for the next days I'll be able to feel the happiness we once had before. The kind of days that me and my family will just visit a park and spend the day together or go to restaurants and happily talk while we are eating. In the depth of my heart I know that Madrid would help me achieve that.
P.s. I'm hoping for a new neighbor also *smiley face symbol*