Prologue

Morning run:
Sometimes I feel your presence,
Sometimes I feel your absence,
Sometimes I feel nothing.
I don’t know what hurts the most.

San Miguel, September 2020

Mexico, February 2020

6:27 am Morning run. It’s dark outside. The streets are quiet, the sky is deep purple. The moon is not full and seems to smile at me.

When the days are cold
And the cards all fold
All the saints we see
Are all made of gold
–
When your dreams all fail
And the ones we hail
Are the worst of all
And the blood’s run stale

“Demons” by Imagine dragons is playing in my headphones. And, I am running back and forth on Orizaba Street, like a mad woman.
A taxi driver is washing his green car with a rag, he dips into an old bucket of paint. A short woman in uniform walks with determination, holding a twigs-broom on her shoulders. I believe she is on her way to work.

I want to hide the truth
I want to shelter you
But with the beast inside
There’s nowhere we can hide

I pass a school girl, in her uniform too. High white socks, a heavy school bag and a woolen hat pulled over her head. The air is cold but I’m hot.

When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide
Don’t get too close
It’s dark inside
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

Four years later, my rage is intact. Life has taken me to Mexico. San Antonio is the name of my neighborhood, in San Miguel de Allende. I’m running on that short strip of smooth cobblestones. I can’t seem to take off but only to crash. My world has collapsed, my soul is torn apart and I don’t know how to go on living. I want to scream. I run to reset. I run to shut down my unwanted thoughts but, you are on my mind. I feel your pain.

A German Shepard barks at me every time I run under his balcony, his head out, through the wrought iron grilles. In an adjacent street, I see a silent shadow passing by; the shadow of a man on a bicycle, holding half a dozen of leashes. He is the dog walker.

Don’t want to let you down
But I am hellbound
Though this is all for you
Don’t want to hide the truth

6:55 am The darkness is slowly fading away. La tienda de Dona Rosa ¹ is opening. A couple of customers are already waiting. I didn’t see in a while, the old lady dusting off the street, in her night dress.
I end my run breathless. I completed four laps on Orizaba. It is not much. My soul is still crying but I relieved my body and, my mind is calmer. I walk home. Paloma is greeting me at the gate, wagging her tail. We climb the stairs to the rooftop.
A gentle light is skimming the city. A hot air balloon is witnessing San Miguel wakening. Birds are conversing in a loud cacophony. Mosquitoes are still on their operating hours. A couple of humming birds are foraging in the cactus flowers. The roosters seem to be the last ones to wake up.

Sunrise. Sunset. Another sunrise. Four years have passed. Four years of trying to make sense of what has happened. I wonder if you watched the sun rising before you took your life. Or, maybe it was the sun setting. Were you inhabited too, by this abyssal vacuity that fills me and, asking yourself: what am I doing here?
I wonder what was your last thought or, your last feeling. Maybe there were no more thoughts or feelings, only that pain. That pain and that certainty that you don’t belong here, that the world is not fair. You said that often: “It’s not fair”. You were wondering where do you belong to. You were tired of fighting. There seemed no place for you, where you could be you. You pulled the trigger. Your fight is over, you passed it on to those who love you.

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[1] “Madam Rosa’s shop” in Spanish.

Death Café or, The loss of the body

The other Monday, I was participating to a Death Café and I cried. I was not sure why. These were not tears of sadness.
Death cafés are places where strangers meet, over tea and cake, to talk about death. It sounds spooky, odd and morbid but, it is not. When we talk about death ultimately, we talk about life… and love.

When Nati took his life, his death cracked me open. He was my lighthouse and, I am left, lost in the dark. In moments of great pain and deep vacuity, I contemplate that door he left opened. From time to time, the knob is nagging at me. I am seized by dizziness.

I had this clear dream not long after he died:

We are in our respective cars, side by side, like if we were ready to engage in a race, on a dusty dirt road. No starting pistol. We drive side by side in the dust. The road becomes narrow. There is space for only one car. You speed up and pass before. I follow you. The road continues along the cliff edge of a grand canyon. You disappear ahead in a dusty cloud. The road is getting narrower. Red flags, safety barriers, construction site ahead. I have to stop. I understand I can’t follow you on that road. I get off the car, look at the horizon. A dusty point. You are no longer here. Silence. I have to stay on this side of life.

I have been struggling with the acceptance of his death because I know he is not dead. I have been struggling with guilt as well, because I can’t say I miss him.
That day, at the Death Café, a lot was said about the loss of the body. And I understood what I was missing. I miss his physicality. I miss the sound of his voice, his laughter. I miss his long silhouette in the kitchen, as he was making diner. I miss laying a kiss, on the back of his neck, while he was preparing his flight plan. I miss holding his hand. I miss his body. I mourn for the loss of his body.

I realize some of my pain is caused by the physical separation. But I know, that death is only a compartment of life.
The partition wall between life and death is as thin as a sheet of paper and, sometimes it tears up. Messages oozes through. Both ways. Synchronicities appear. I saw an arm reaching for me in the Antarctic sky. I saw a flower falling down on my laps, on a Cypriot beach. A bird kissed my nose. And sometimes, worlds meet in my dreams. The compartment is not hermetic. I know you are not dead. Only your body is.

I imagine you, the nose pressed against the window of that compartment, looking at me and trying to get my attention by all means. Paper planes with broken wings a couple of times. I’m listening like a child, with a tin can telephone pressed to my ear, hoping you are pressing the other side, to your ear too.
We are apart from each other, only by a thin sheet of paper. And, that gives me comfort.

As I walk in the streets of San Miguel, I’m thinking: You left with a piece of me. My body feels like an empty container and yet, I feel so much life and love, at the same time. When we have nothing to lose, nothing to look forward, nobody to love; we are open to life and we love everybody. This is why I cried. These were not tears of sadness.

And then, I notice on the cobblestones, two small feathers rolling all over each other, pushed by the wind. I thought of a couple, making love. A small feather and a bigger one. It could be as well, a wink from Nati. I stop and I pick them up, to save them in my wallet with all the other ones. The little things in life. These were tears of love.

Sunset on the rooftop

“Impressive Art” filter or, maybe it is my Mexican wine:
Calixa 2018 – a blend of Tempranillo, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot by Monte Xanic
Mosquitoes are going to be borrachos[1] tonight
Strong wine, a few helpless tears
Not in the wine, never in the wine.
This journey doesn’t get easier
The floor is more comfortable than the chairs,
Still warm. Blame on the burning sun.
A chilly breeze, an incandescent sky.
Nothing is permanent

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[1] “Drunk” in Spanish