I remember him from the smile on his lips to those slightly sharper than most teeth.
His eyes were red as the blood that pumps through our veins and allows us to live.
I remember his accent, distinctly Romanian, with no hint of other influence; it was a little harder to understand than what I'm used to.
I only recently moved here with my family a few years back after all, but I remember meeting him; he stood in the government building to establish our citizenship, and his eyes were bright and friendly.
He smiled and when he spoke, I heard the charm of this country within it; it was odd to say the least to hear that magnetic quality to his voice especially considering my background.
No country has thus won us over or made us long to assimilate yet there was nearly a tempting quality to his smile and the lilt to his voice.
I wonder if he knew that or if he knew how he embodied his people, fellow citizens, and those that entered his country whether to become a part of it or find a place to live or even those who visited.
Whenever I think of Romania, I think of him, and yet I also think of the culture that we refuse to become a part of.
He maintains that mystic air of someone who is apart from the rest and yet embodies their causes.
The second time that I saw him was through a political movement, he stood in the center, not a day older than our first meeting.
I was rushing my younger children and my grandkids away from the movement only to catch sight of him, standing in the middle, looking as if those around him were eager for his word as if it were the best kind of idea once spoken aloud.
He stood tall, proud, yet his eyes were nearly lonely, so much colder than when I'd first seen him, and I almost wanted to stop, treat him as important as he made himself out to be in the quiet moments where pride never touched.
I didn't say a word; it would take too much, give such strong parts of me away as I stared at the man that still embodied Romania to me from the political strife of any nation to the quiet, welcoming aura of one that chose to accept my family despite many others' distrust of us.
That man was more open minded than any of those that were not like us, looking for a home in a world that did not accept us, forcing us to become nomads.
His eyes had sparkled the first time that we'd met as if he was joyous to embrace us despite his own fellow citizens often shifting opinions.
They were cold rubies now, lost in a haze of a desire for change, something that my people were not longing for in one particular country; acceptance would be nice, but it definitely was not a necessity.
I missed the bright red of happy eyes when compared to hard rubies that looked so sad as if he was losing a part of himself, standing before his people and claiming their change for his own.
My heart breaks for him despite myself.
The last time that I saw him was the day that he awkwardly entered my shop, looking for a palm reading, asking nervously if it was okay.
That was the day I knew, I saw it in him then; he was not human, not a normal citizen of his country.
He was an embodiment of all that they were; I wonder if his pain was different than ours, more broken, as I bid that man, Vladimir, farewell and wonder if Romania has ever considered me as more than a citizen, as someone who was allowed to know.
I didn't tell him then nor did I tell him recently that I knew what he was, but I listen for that tone of voice, accepting, loving, yet with a desire to remain all that he was even though I shouldn't.
He was always a good man and perhaps that was what I saw in bright red eyes and had gotten a chance to reknow in the hard rubies of change.
I miss the nation that allowed us a home yet I know that we are not allowed to know of this man and his say; I wish his long life to be peaceful as I close my shop today with the thoughts of two months ago.