Eric: The Day a Dream Came True

Next time you witness the triumph of love, do me a favor and think of Mr. Valé. Five years ago old Valé hobbled off into the sunset, cane in one hand, suitcase full of memories in the other. He didn’t stay long—only long enough to never be forgotten. I still don’t know what it was, but old Valé had a way about him.

Most of them speak with a British accent and smell of pipe tobacco. But Valé didn’t just speak; he sang every word, sounding a bit like Julio Iglesias would after dressing in angel’s wings. Most of them arrive with an air of pomp and a nose lifted high. They are typically grumpy without even the decency to smile and shake your hand. But Mr. Valé was different. He stepped into my life with all the passion of a blindfolded schoolboy swinging at his first piñata. He slipped into my room and woke me with a belly laugh, grabbed his little Spanish guitar, and serenaded me with the loudest and most sincere rendition of “Vamos a Celebrar” (Let’s Celebrate) I’ve ever heard.

Most of them come and go, clock in and clock out, never to be remembered except for the mess they make and conveniently leave for their replacement to clean up. Valé came, not just to hang a token reminder of his existence on the coat hanger of time, but to change history—to make a dent so big that he could never be forgotten.