Few things are true in life, but death is one of them. We all die; that’s a fact. Among all, some are allowed to be witnesses of their own death. Though, very few people are able to experience the awareness of their own upcoming death. I don’t even know that feeling; but he did.

I imagine how the foundation of your life starts staggering all of a sudden. Everything that you believed in transforms into hesitation. I imagine how all your feelings bolster: you love with a greater intensity than you used to, but you also hate more strongly what you already despised. Sooner than later, agony takes control of a battle that has already been lost. A relentless end. That’s how I picture it.

Nevertheless some cavalryman, despite the fact that their souls have already been sentenced, keep fighting. They fight until their last breath. Who knows their reasons, and why they still want to remain at the ring where that punch will leave them K.O.? Yet they there are, dogged. Like a flower, who still knowing that winter will come or that soil and stones will bury it, insists on blooming the following spring.

That’s how he was; a rose, a banner. One day he got home, and grabbing some charcoal, he wrote on a white canvas: “esa empecinada flor.” (‘that dogged flower.’). He knew he was dying, but he remained unaware that, during that tragic time, something started to sprout; an unexpected legacy.  

Thank you for planting that seed. This garden blossoms because of you and your insatiable thirst of life.