This past week I walked into my parent’s room and found my dad and my brother laying down watching the TV. I stood at the end of the bed for a bit facing them and then just fell right in between them. In that moment it hit me. The Romo men are all in one room but we were missing someone.
My oldest brother died about two years ago in October. His name is Jorge Alberto Romo. Throughout the process of being accepted into The World Race and raising funds my mind frequently finds its way to him. I imagine myself being able to talk to him letting him know that I’m going to be able to travel again and this time to eleven different countries. He was actually the first person I told that I got into the World Race. I went on Facebook and wrote him a message. I know our conversation would have been about the food, people, and smells of these places. I know I would have heard the words, “I’m proud of you. I love you baby baba” with his radiant smile covering his whole face.
I was then slapped out of my train if thought. My brother got up grabbed a pillow and preceded to attack me and just as fast as it stated it he ran out of the room. My dad just put his hand on my head and that was it.
My brother was a fearless man. He would face adversity with a grin on his face and live one day at a time. It is through his love for history, food, people, knowledge, and for his family that I been able to become who I am. He set the foundations for his younger siblings to achieve what he was unable to not because he was incapable of doing it but because of life circumstances. A man of simple taste but full of soul and charisma, it is because of him that I am able to do what I am doing.
