a farewell to Marquez

To my idol, hero, and teacher:

Last night, I dreamed that my two front teeth were grinding against each other, trying to push each other out, the pain so intense that I woke up with a sweaty start, to a text message telling me that you had died. Perhaps there is some truth to the superstition, I thought as I read. Few, after all, believed in the power of belief more than you did.

Thank you, for teaching me about a great many things: the volatility of memory, the magic of science, the repetitiveness of history.

How light from a lamp can be like water from a spout, if you keep the windows closed.

How birdcages can be the most beautiful things in world.

How a rabid madness and the love that springs from it, can both be a demon’s work.

How wind can get people to remember, or to forget.

How every one of us, deep down inside, is scared that nobody will come to weep at their funeral.

How love can wait for fifty-one years, nine months, and four days into a lifelong cycle of running, and still be happy with the outcome.

How people respond to widespread death by creating life, and how wonderful that thought is.

Rest assured that the world will be at your funeral: weeping, remembering you in the scent of bitter almonds and the touch of ice, whilst continuing to decline the end of man, creating and recreating that magical miracle called life.

Fare well, Sir. Again, farewell.

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One of my prized possessions: a 1978 edition of One Hundred Years of Solitude.
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