Death is usually inopportune and superb. It insults us when he takes loved ones, those who still have so much to live, more than in a single life.
Dying is the only definitive thing. However, we all seem so far to death that when the biological ending looks behind a friend’s shoulder, the fibers of our body react as if The news It was impossible.
The years go by and one finds them in the morning after watching your dream; In faces that ask you the time, in the light that surrounds the good news. I say it because I am an adult and I have friends, two inevitable conditions for absences to exist.
I do not remember when I met Eduardo Sosa, if Vicente or Pepe introduced me; if it was in those years of the fate of crabs in Cárdenas or in the download spaces organized by the FEU in the university. It is certain that fifteen years have passed, because there is the photographic record of a rock in Matanzas where I invited it.
First I was “Nagüe” or “Compay”, then and forever “Reysito”. Although my beard grew and my hair was dyed white; Never Reynaldo, never king.
They say that when one knows someone, the brain makes a portrait and, although time passes, if that person remains close, the first image remains. Could it be that Sosa (I have never called Eduardo) he still sees me Lozano? With my long, tangled hair and with my childhood curiosity. Could it be that I guessed apprentice?
Fifteen years are nothing and they are everything. Two of my nephews were not born and today they give me lessons. My children or his were not born. And so, in the stupor what the news causes; that he was never expected despite the reserved prognosis of doctors; In the midst of a constellation of sad feelings, I think of them, their children.
There are ages in which the magnitude of death is not understood, and pain is crouched behind ignorance. Blessed is. There is knowledge that one would not have to have, because they hurt.
Hopefully they grow up listening to their father to say that “adolescence is a cruel and wise bird,” that for their friends he kills and dies even if they are crazy, and that autumn taught him not to doubt.
I wish they tell you about the partner, the policyholder, the one who climbed to a stage in the middle of a concert to tell you in the ear “Sing that I like”; He who always had some entertaining story to get you out of bad times, the conversationalist, the demanding, the man who knew imperfect and human, and with all his being hugged you.
The giant of popular troubadour wisdom; The one who did not accept to be the best second voice in Cuba, because he said: “Pablo Milanés is the best second, first and third.”
Sosa, the son of Tomb seven, Miramar and Del Vedado. The troubadour that “sings of everything and when it is needed.” He who did not sign that millionaire contract because he demanded to be enmity with Cuba, “And that is not, Company.”
Caramba! Record now I remember. I met you in Miramar, where you lived near Raúl Torres. It was he who introduced us. Of course, 16 years ago. You made me take the guitar and with many nerves I sang to you one of my teenage pieces. “You have to start studying urgently, Nagüito, you can’t settle,” you said something like that.
Sosa, Compay! And that pending conversation? And all the plans? And the family, and friends, and songs, and festivals?
How clumsy we are human beings, who only remember that death is to bend when a friend is gone. You have to start living urgently, Nagüe!
I don’t drink alcohol, you know it, but today I give myself a buche in your name.
See you soon!
