Growing up, my cousin and I weren’t exactly close. Born less than a year apart, we had a bond that felt more like a sibling rivalry than a friendship. She was born in Italy, I was born in Norway, and our shared moments were scattered across European summers and Christmases at our grandparents’ home in Hungary. In those days, we were the classic feisty cousins, the kind who left behind a trail of memories for summer camp teachers who remembered us all too well. Pulling hair, kicking butts—it was part of our “thing.” We were the “international cousins”, never quite understanding each other but always linked by the ties of family.
But even though I cared about her as family, we didn’t have that closeness that some people share with their cousins. For the longest time, our language barrier was a wall we couldn’t break through. I admired her, though; she had a confidence I envied, a fearless way of making friends that I could only dream of as the shy one.
Then, a couple of years ago, everything shifted. I learned Italian, and her Hungarian got better. It was as if, suddenly, we could see each other clearly for the first time. We could finally talk—really talk—about who we were, what we dreamed of, and the lives we led outside of those summer months. Since then, our bond has only deepened. I’ve grown to cherish her, not just as my cousin, but as one of the few true friends in my life.
This year, she turned 29. And it’s moments like this that make me pause and realize how quickly life moves forward. We’re not kids at camp anymore. We’re adults, facing responsibilities, jobs, and the scary realities of navigating life on our own. In the painting I made for her birthday, I wanted to capture that feeling. Us, flying through clouds of the unknown, finally catching a glimpse of the sun and of life itself. We’re still moving forward, still growing, still finding our way. But this time, we’re side by side, guiding each other through this journey.
Grazie, Ester, per esserci. Ti voglio bene.
