Life can be an irrational anomaly. It can change in a matter of seconds. Life for me changed with a sentence and a look as my mother walked away. I did not want to accept that my best friend, my rock, my world was no longer in my life. My screams echoed in the street. My tears flooded the floor. The doors of the small, pearl colored bus closed on my childhood.

Undoubtedly, she was a hard person, my grandmother. Hard because she had to be but loving in her own way. In that first year, I was a guest in this new home. In Honduras, being 7 years old meant survival. It meant detachment and transition. It meant bible verses, slaps to the head, 4AM wake up calls and journeys to the market.

The market, a vast field that gave you a feeling of freedom. With the sun’s rays at a distance, the shivering and the cafe tinto gave life to the morning crowds. Plastic sheets covered the ground followed by the merchandise. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, personal items, and nourishments could be found in this microcosm of Honduran culture and its people.

On journeys home from this festive field, the manageable yet burning plastic rubbed against my fingers. With no excuse sufficient to stop, I would rearrange all of the merchandise into the hand truck. With items in place, the menacing truck overtook my sight as I began to push it forward. With no sight other than the black sheet, my eyes suffered as my watered forehead reacted to the heat. As my fragile feet screamed, my arms ached to rest, and my back begged to sit, I had no choice but to follow my grandmother. That should be enough to teach a kid how to earn a living. However, as the sun’s rays disappeared, my workday was not yet finished.

As my callused hands drove the knife through the hard, green skin of the plantain, I looked at the intimidating boxes that awaited me. With my fingers dried up, I prepared the bags and the utensils that were needed for those orders that needed delivery. I was the deliverer. I had to ride my bike for those who had no energy to move, their youth long spent. Those who did not know that a kid whose muscles were crying him for a break was bringing food to their doorsteps. A kid who had to live by his grandmother’s schedule.

Those two years that I lived with my grandmother may seem hellish, but in truth, it was a nourishing experience that allowed me to be part of the real world. My childhood may have been taken, but my body and soul learned what many parents protect their kids from, life. Without my grandmother and her teachings, I would not be where I am today. I am a kid who learned to earn a living, learned to be responsible, learned to be a hard worker, learned to persevere no matter the circumstances, learned how to be respectful, but most importantly, a kid who learned that true love comes in many different forms.