Updated:
Keep
Doris is dead. She has lost her life in an accident, riding a bicycle near the sea.
He was fifty-nine years old. He was a pure soul, a noble spirit. In his smile there was room for all the love in the world.
He loved a painter of few words and plenty of talent. They had two young children. They were happy in a discreet way, without showing off.
They lived as free artists in a town near the sea. He loved the sea. A day was incomplete if it didn’t ride waves. All the evils of the world dissolved them in the sea.
He was a poet. She lived in the clouds, sitting on the clouds. From there she wrote. Then she went down to the sea.
He was not interested in fame, success, money. His delicate world was made of silences and contemplations, of words and smiles.
I didn’t want to be in the photo. She wanted to take the photo.
As a child she lived reading and dancing. She looked like a butterfly. Subtle graces graced it. She flew above the others.
He had a little house on top of a tree. There she read and wrote poems. Then she moved to the clouds.
He believed in God. He loved the poor, the dispossessed. He loved the mourners, the long-suffering. He prayed tirelessly for them.
He had friendship with God. He called him Skinny, Skinny. they loved each other They greeted each other often. They made jokes.
Still young, he fell ill with cancer. The doctors gave her up. They said that she would die in a few months. She abandoned conventional treatments. She underwent alternative therapies. She performed the miracle of being healed.
I was chasing beauty. She hated violence. He cultivated art. He deplored politics. He preached peace. He fled from the barbarians.
She lived for many years in a cloistered convent as a Discalced Carmelite nun. She gave her soul and her body to the service of others. She was a saint without realizing it.
He knew religious passion and amorous passion. He knew bondage and freedom. He always chose the hardest path.
It was a butterfly and, if you wanted, an eagle. Free among the flowers, free among the clouds. Gliding through the waves of the sea, it was also a dolphin.
Wherever you are right now, I hope you find a sea to keep rolling waves.
His body has stopped breathing. Her heart has stopped beating. His blood has been spilled. Her life was not in vain. She left a mark. She educated us in love.
The other day I invited her and her family to my house on the island. She seemed to be glad. We’ll see each other in July, she told me. The followingnoons and days pass, she wrote to me.
We hadn’t seen each other for a few years. We lived far away. We saw each other at Christmas parties. We had to board one or two flights to see each other.
In our last email exchange, a few days ago, he wrote me: You are the best. I’ll tell my kids you’re inviting us. They will be happy. They love you very much. Like you say, it’ll be great to have a little chat.
The best was her.
Now Doris has stopped breathing, riding waves, writing poetry, riding a bike. She will live in her husband, the noble and silent painter like a century-old tree, and in her two children. She will live in her mother, a saint, and in us, her brothers. She will live in our memory and our hearts.