Born. Grow. Die.

My grandmother died last year, I was on a business trip and could not be at her funeral. This is what I wrote on the plane back home. I hesitated on sharing this, but I have change my mind. Hope you enjoy.

Born. Grow. Die.

Live.

Life is a complex thing. Easily to describe it linguistically, but hard as hell to give meaning to it. It is always hard to give it some meaning, to explain a person what life is, what is “live well”, what is “well being”, what are the living standards of the culture that one dwells and why and how to respect the standards of the other cultures out there.

Foster. Grow. Transcend.

Mr Walker Evans has said it better than me: “Stare, pray, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.”

The death of a family member always leave us that feeling of despair, which always leads to reflection. It always drive us to think and meditate about that person that just died. About its importance in our growth, in or sense of family, loyalty, kinship, love. The smells that are lost, the moments lived that are forgotten, the smiles never to be seen again, the memories of never taken travels.

Have I lived? Have I learned something? Am I listening? Am I alone? Is there anybody out there? Where does the people that I love gone? Am I lost? Does love is just a moment? Is it only an instinct? Am I human? Have I evolved enough to to leave my particle of humanity to help in its evolution?

The image I publish here is from my grandmother who last Thursday just died. She was an incredible woman, who lived a plenty life, with the caring love of her seven children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. A woman which only two weeks ago, with all her aching back, lit up when I told her that I would be traveling, next month, to Madrid on a business trip. She wanted to come with me.

This is a tribute to her, to her husband, to my beautiful bullfighter grandfather, both the parents of my mother, and to my politic and loyal to the end, grandfather, and my Heineken lover, but just in Sunday, grandmother, both the parents of my father. They are my blood, they are who I am. If they had treated me any milimeter different I wouldn’t be who I am.

Thank you for giving me life. For helping me gaze and be in awe with humanity. Rosa, Alicia, Alfonso, Gustavo, you made me who I am.

This is eternity.

One response

  1. Que bonito escribe ud! Dentro de este cuñado grinch que tengo hay un gran corazon que pocas veces deja que veamos!
    La vida se va y no hay un absoluto mas definitivo… solo quedan las sonrisas generamos en los de nuestro alrededor

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