A friend of mine has died. I just read about him in the news. We worked together for 26 years in my newspaper. He was a photographer. I was a writer. We began to work the same year and used to go along to many places to do our job as reporters, he with his camera, me with my tape recorder and my notebook.
Dear friend, the news of your death in the newspaper was succinct and cold. It froze my blood. How I gonna miss you! I’m sure that in the particular Heaven prepared for the photographers who love beautiful images and happy smiles, you already have embraced your Dad and mentor and your Mom, who you loved so much.
But why have you left us so soon? You were too young to die.
The grief of the farewell is deep and cruel, and the tears make blur the bright colors of this sunny afternoon in the semi-confined city. You are leaving us when they are not allowing to pay you our last respects properly, in the middle of this madness of masks, social distancing, and restrictions.
Precisely you, always so close to everybody and smiling, are living us in this time of remoteness and dehumanizing covered faces. All your friends want to be there for you and console your twin brother, who stays here alone, but we can’t get close enough. This damn virus doesn’t let us express our friendship as we would like.
We are all in debt with you.
Thanks for have taught us to love the small, simple things of life. Thanks for making us laugh every day with your great sense of humor that you always shared with everybody. Thanks for your life of quiet and good man. Farewell, my friend. Till we met again in the other world without which nothing has true meaning.