You died on Halloween night. While, on the other side of the window, the city played at dressing up as death, in the room the real thing was happening. Those you needed were there. You passed away with a beautiful gesture, just as you were and still are.
After I let the mutual society know, I received a message with a condolence link; the name on it was mine. Even I, a great fan of black humour, found it a tad much.
I rang and they created another one without deleting the first; so, by mistake, on that eve of All Saints’ Day I had my own death notice open to the world. Just as I was losing you, the most important person in my life.
Against the advice of those who know about grief, I spent the wake, the burial and the weeks that followed as alone as I could, with Keka for company, your little Yorkshire terrier whom you had asked me to look after. Months later I understood the reason for surrounding oneself with people, and the sense in it, but I needed it this way. Beneath the pain there was a strange peace: that of knowing I had always been there, that I had given myself completely; a peace I did not want to share with anyone, because there was nothing to console; something quiet and mine, yours and mine.
Only a few days ago our Keka went too, and I picture her at your side. And although I expect nothing from any hereafter, nor do I believe you are somewhere waiting for us, I feel you both with me, and not as a memory. I talk to you and send you kisses. And ‘mental WhatsApps’, messages you will never read and which, even so, well up in me. And every day I say goodnight to you and get an answer within the bond, nothing more.
Every Halloween, when the city fills with death in fancy dress, I close the door and stay with the real thing. I do not celebrate it. I stay alone with you and talk to you in silence, and I feel that not even death is going to break us. The death notice was corrected that night. What was truly written no one can correct, because it is not a mistake: it is the only thing that did not go.