The Little Book of the Dead - Santiago

 

I loved you, Santiago. I loved you as the best friend I had in those days in Vilnius. A love, man to man. A love for humanity, I rarely have. I still remember you arriving with your wobbling gait and your steady white cigarette in your hand.I remember your curly white hair, I remember you insisting on buying me a coffee. I remember you on many days: when it was hot or cold, when there was snow or rain. I remember that bewitched night when the snow fell and whirled in a tempest, hitting and beating the streets around, and you fell into an unrighteous love that would make you suffer in the days to come. I remember how you changed. How your eyes changed, your face. Your spirit. You had lost the tenderness of your gaze, the sincere way you watched me. Unrighteous love can kill unprepared people, and it killed you, indeed. I still remember you a few days before you died. Your face ghastly white, introverted, you spoke to me, carrying a trembling hand with the steady white cigarette to your lips. 
I meet you sometimes along the same streets we once walked down together. Wobbling again, you come to me with your steady white cigarette in your hand. You come close and smile at me. You don't stop and talk. You just wave and smile from your far dwelling and say, "Don't forget me!"