Requiem on a Cold February Day in 2013
Clouds shroud this third Sunday in February on the year that many claimed would not arrive, at least they do so in the Celestial City atop the Central Range of the Colombian Andes, as though it hadn’t heard that time had merely marched on and nothing had changed. The monochrome outside is tainted with memories of green, like ghosts haunting a hidden home. Chill leaks into my bright and warm apartment through interlocking folds amidst its many windows, the world seemingly far away but for the instantaneous means of communication at my fingertips.
It’s very quiet for a Sunday here, a day when the populace shares community time in diverse ways, enjoying streets reserved for cyclists and skaters and walkers of all kinds, dreaming melancholy dreams or fantasizing of future loves, or is that just me I’m thinking of. But it is quiet, very quiet, fantasies or not. As always I’ve reading to do and writing to attempt, things I’m very grateful for. As always, I miss my sons and today, even more than other days, I think of friends very far away in time and space and miss them too. And I miss old loves and loves that should have been had I only the wisdom then. Nostalgia braids in cold coils with melancholy. Today I learned that my friend Chip Hinson passed away yesterday joining that ever growing chain of cold links forged in memories of platinum and gold.
Clouds shroud this third Sunday in February on the year that many claimed would not arrive, at least in the Celestial City atop the Central Range of the Colombian Andes and I think I understand why.
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2013; all rights reserved