By ordering the drawer, I could return the past, capturing it in a folder by a message, because of the photo of the class. One June morning, while you're working to tell the days that separate you from your vacation, an insignificance takes you ten months ago and makes you nostalgic.

You haven't always thought that way, no, of course, because you've had with the group as many descents as increments, but you see, they're bigger and they've gone anyway. And like this year, you also remember the previous ones. It's been so many, it's hard to remember everyone, and you have to remember certain names from the bottom of your brain. You feel guilty because the students, they, always remember the professor's name. No? Yeah, whenever you've learned something from yourself, remember you. If you've been forgotten, so bad! Making an effort, in addition to his name, you see faces again. They've all followed you and they've left. You see them from time to time, at a party, because they go back to a course, because you cross them in the bookstore, yet they have their way.

There is a point of suffering. First of all, the same thing that can happen to plants because of the difficulty of settling in the desert. Everything had to be collected, perceptions, customs, coldness. For us teachers, in a way, it's a warm poison, a hell that you learn from. It's a job, we have to break the prejudices year after year, innovate, wear ten times in explanations, adapt ourselves, go as close as possible to help. No one can leave a course safely.

There is a point of pleasure. We have had at hand everything we need to work: roles, network, people, desire, a north, reason and love, time. We have shared things together, the grammatical problems of course, the exits, we have gone to the Basques and we have met with some treasures, we have told jokes, we have emptied the forests to the bottom and we have gone to film festivals. We have taught them Basque, they have learned. And they've been given much more than that: we've made them see an environment, for them to move, we've warned them about the social media that's ringing on them, we've given them the history of our people to become masters of it, we've talked about what our artists create for them to enjoy, maybe we've wanted them to convey a way of life and to relate to us. Let us confess it, let us say the words, perhaps those who have sinned to you: we have tried to make you feel values, a bewildered future and our popular passion, so that tomorrow, besides being vasco-speakers, they may also be Basque.

Year after year students pass by and I get a strange feeling. They went with something in common. That is what I have offered you, if it is an unfathomable, unfortunate part, which is not measured either in time or in money. They say yes, they're richer. That's not why I'm poorer. It's indescribable, it's not a fault, it's not a burden; it's never going to come back, I won't recover it, it's willingly, and it's got gleaming, raised eyes. They've gone, they've done it, and overcoming the tests has nothing to do with it.

The work we do is unimaginable. Those of us who work in the field of adult Euskaldunization, if there is any recognition, find it in that path that the students have made. Our profession, perhaps not the most beautiful in the world, is humanly one of the richest in this country. Until September.