From the village to Boston

2026-02-22 09:31:00, Kulturë Agim Xhafka

I accidentally saw Alex, my high school friend, on Facebook. I was seized by a great longing and quickly asked him to be my friend. In the meantime, I immersed myself in his page. He lives in Boston, apparently he has been there for many years because he writes many posts and comments in English. While I was waiting for him to friend me, our high school times were playing in my head.

He lived in the village, in Dishnica, but you couldn't call him a peasant. He could come all the way to Korça in boots, but he would come to school in shoes. He could come all the way to the city in a miner's sweatshirt, but he would come to class in a jacket or overcoat like us. That's how he kept himself clean as a feather, even though he walked for miles and often stepped into puddles and holes.

Leksi, that's what we all called him, was loyal in society. He didn't get angry for no reason, he didn't want a fight, he separated those who were arguing and was always smiling. I'll never forget that smile of his. Today, he's probably covered in gray hair, but I remember him with black hair that flowed in waves.

I'm not saying he was the most outstanding in the class, but I can say for sure that he was near the top, near the most outstanding. And to think that he spent two or three hours a day just traveling. If he had used those hours to study today, Aleksi would have replaced Aleks Buda at the Academy. I missed him so much these days that I was angry that he wasn't accepting me as a friend. So I wrote to him on messenger.

-I am your friend, maybe you have forgotten me, but I have you on my mind and in my heart.

So truly, high school society rises above virtues and never dies. And meanwhile, my mind was asking me:

-Hey, will he remember you? Will he remember you? Since he's been waiting so long without accepting your friend request, maybe he's forgotten about you?

I excluded everything. Because he was not my friend except at school. He often came to my house. He met with my parents, my brother, and my sister. And in the midst of these experiences, I received his acceptance as a friend and then a touching text that he sent me on messenger. He wrote to me:

"My brother. I was overjoyed. Years and years without seeing you. I worked as a teacher in the village until I came to America. I learned about you when you were in Tirana, you became a journalist, just like you dreamed, then I followed your writings and publications. I remember your father, mother, sister, brother and never, never forget your daily bread for me"

I got stuck in this passage. What bread is he talking about? Even if he ate a plate of food with us, he wouldn't have put a piece of bread in his mouth. It wasn't something that sticks in the mind. But I continued, without getting bogged down with questions and doubts.

"That bread was vital for my family..."

He mentions bread again, I was talking to myself. I was about to write:

-Okay, what does bread say to us, bread?

I continued reading.

"You and your family have received the blessing for all those years you brought bread for me."

Ah, now I remember. Bread came to mind, bread.

Every day I would go to the store and buy a 2 kg loaf of bread for Alex. I would buy a slab, that's what we called it because it was so big. It would feed a family. I would often buy it before we went to school. He would knock on my door and I would run downstairs and grab the warm bread.

From Monday to Saturday. On Saturdays, my brother or sister would follow me to the store. Sometimes my father or mother would follow. That day, he would put two loaves of bread in a bag because he didn't come to town on Sunday, it was a day off. So many years have passed, and Aleksi mentions wheat bread among his memories with me. Because it was vital, in the village, only corn bread was sold, cooked so badly that you couldn't even crack it with a bullet.

Leksi, now you live in America. You have dozens of types of bread there, one more delicious than the other. But you don't forget our friendship built on bread. Friendship that symbolizes health, life. Soon he promised me that he would be in his village of Dishnicë.

I will definitely meet him and bring him a loaf of wheat bread to share between us, breaking it with my hand. Let's open it in the middle of the table like we would open our hearts and talk about the years we have missed each other. And then... Then, can we toast with bread? Let's try it. Because friendship is like alchemy. Everything it touches turns into gold. In pure gold, 24 karats./ CNA