Mis amigos muertos

As one approaches the end of life, many of our dearest friends often reside in the afterlife. During these lonely autumn evenings, I often recall their names, one by one, accompanied by the soothing strains of a jazz melody that transports me back to happier times we shared together. I imagine they are listening to these memories, and if there's rain in our world of the living, I wonder if it's also raining in their realm, where some of my friends may have gathered at a gambling table for a game of poker.

Whether the weather is sunny or warm, they may choose to wander through the forest until the fog rolls in. Their deaths, while tragic, allow me to picture them engaged in activities similar to those they enjoyed on this side of life. Some will continue sailing to Ibiza during the summer, others will dream of making new films, or celebrate the success of their latest novel.

Others will spend more time enjoying the sweetness of figs beneath the shade of pine trees, reminiscing about lost loves, travels, and beautiful memories of the past. In the realm of the deceased, they will breathe in the scent of corkwood burning in the hearths of homes inhabited by my deceased friends. Perhaps they wish to know what happens here on earth.

They'll need to be told that a human tragedy has shattered our modernity into pieces. Remember that glamorous era of traveling on the high-speed train? That dream has now become a tangled mess of iron filled with corpses. This tragedy must be added to the madness of young people, intoxicated by violence that set city streets ablaze, breaking storefronts and looting luxury shops, a feast that politicians on both sides have taken advantage of.

Nonetheless, despite the grief for all those who have died, I raised my arm to a bramble bush and gently plucked some ripe haws. With the tip of my fingers, I rubbed their furry surface, which concealed beneath a honey-colored hue. I placed them in a bowl, feeling that by this act, I have helped restore the order of the world.