Paco. I just played the play button, and the emotion flooded my inner house, without asking. it happened just the same way many years ago, when I opened the door, and the whole Andalucia entered my house, filled it forever. Soon after he settled in his new room, the house was thriving with misterious cooking aromas, flamenco music, improvisation, surprise, Art.

I never met a man so manly. I mean that there was a completeness in the way he conducted himself. So theatrical, he could be serious and change to a clown in a matter of seconds. But I don't want to describe him today. Whatever he knew, he had learnt it through his senses. Nothing in the world was really out of his realm. Everything interested him, he grabbed everything knowable or lovable between his hands, without asking first.

Today, a piece of music, made of rage and honey and white horses, a song he used to sing, grabs my throat by surprise. Tears start flowing as soon as I recognize the first notes. 
He ceased to be when I was not with him. i did not even know that he was ill. All I received was a telex from his boyfriend, and later a letter from him and a painting he made in his last bed. 

A window, of course, the window of his hospital room, for me to look away long after his eyes have dissapeared of this world. 

For going so soon, maybe I am only forgiving him today.

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