There is a word in Spanish, ánimo, that means courage but with a little push. It’s a mantra Mexican people throw around. You say ánimo when someone is carrying something heavy and they start to slow down.

My Junior year ends in less than a month. I imagine my graduation cap weighing me down as I shuffle across a stage. I can’t stand the thought of having regrets but my head is full of them.

The stall separator on my left is carved with the same drawings that were there when I was a foot shorter. No one ever used the bathroom because the fluorescent lights had a habit of going out, the air was offensively humid, and the stench of wet grass never left even in the hottest Texas weather.

“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” - Oscar Wilde

Looking down at you makes me feel tall. I forget how small you are till you pretend I can’t keep up. Holding my hand and dragging me to play in between crinkly eyes and obnoxious giggles, screaming in between winded laughs as I chase you, once I catch you, I spin you, with over-dramatic words about how great you are at games. You smile, asking me to pick you up again just because I can.

I am a product of years of suffering. A product of men and women who were cut from steel. Men and women made grotesque from their broken dreams. They are all cracked hands worn from labor and hushed whispers directed toward their faith.