Yesterday Sebas left. Every time it hurts a little bit less, the farewells I mean. Not because I’m suddenly made of stone, on the contrary, every time I become more permeable to love -To receive, without questioning-
But it always happens to me, that before wishing a friend to have a good trip, I remember like a flash that sometimes between pitches harasses me.
I call it the Backpack Sequence:
I wish that you’ll never get to be a hero of war
I hope that you learn to play the ukelele and that you suddenly feel like doing handicraft.
I hope that your most dangerous weapon be a plastic spoon or a French fried.
I hope that the only thing that you’ll ever get drowned is the F8 at a battleship.
Most people I once spoke with for more than fifteen minutes know how much I liked you. You were my pride, my Third World Rolls Royce, (in a third world where the grass smells like rain and the air sounds like spring). You were my first — functional —bikecycle because before Pancha there were two Rositas and one Mario but none of them generated in me the interest needed in order to learn how to pedal.
You were The one.
I wanted to be that mischievous laugh printed on your face, the sort of smile that lasts from the time you stop watching your cell phone screen until you reach the street corner.
I wanted to be the first pinch of the digestive cigarette and the Chinese market that you had around your house, the one that always saved you from starving because it closed at half past eleven at night.