MY FAMILY SAINTS SOME HAVE NOT BEEN CANONIZED, BUT THEY ARE IN MY PERSONAL MARTYROLOGY
Or when the saints walk. At the foot of Mount Pascual, I prepare to go with flowers and prayers to the cemetery where men and women await the resurrection of the flesh, which I loved and betrayed and which now lives in my memory; Elenita the unfortunate, Carlos Tuya, Gabriel Tuya and his wife the best grandmother, this beautiful Cuban, General Castrillón, my little sister Henar and my little brother Juan José.
A few hours later, I fly to London in my imagination and in an Essex cemetery I venerate the grave of Graham Hugh, the father of Suzanne the woman I loved. He was a tall, handsome Welshman who imported timber from Finland to the UK. Kind affable, accompanied by fellow Llenegli pipe smoker Dick Howells, he welcomed me into his Hornchurch home like a son but afflicted me with my personal problems and a madness that I did not know or did not know. could not bear committing the greatest of my sins.
May Saint Graham Hugh and his beautiful wife Mary Joseph forgive me. Such was the imprint of this transgression of the laws of love that the brand will accompany me to the grave.
Today, they fly under the seagulls of the cemetery of Piñera, almost brushing with their wings the crosses of the tombs. A resurrection announcement? I wonder. The seagulls fly towards the sea and do not answer me, but the security of faith erases the doubt and with the hand of the apostle Paul I reaffirm it: if there is no resurrection, our efforts are in vain.
I then sing a kaddish while listening to the triumphant church of the blessed who were my beloved ones trotting on their chestnuts, or when the saints come on the march. I ask forgiveness and indulgence for this sinner that I have been and for my delusions I will be judged. Lord, have mercy on me, Dies Irae dies irae solvet seculum in favilla…
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