67

Today he would turn 67.

He left at 63, with all the irreverence that was so uniquely his. As if he had walked out in the middle of the party, before anyone could say it was time to go home.

The tears come. Missing his voice, those laughs that asked no one’s permission, that filled every room they entered. The silly jokes delivered with the seriousness of someone revealing the secrets of the universe. His perfume, which i still keep with me and spray every now and then, just to feel him close for a second. Just to pretend he’s still here.

And the hugs. My God, the hugs. He had that bear way about him, of wrapping around me so completely that i believed nothing bad could ever reach me while he was there. As if the whole world could be falling apart outside and he was the one structure that needed to stay standing.

Paizão. I always called him that. And he truly was. Extravagant, intense, full of sharp edges and light. He lived like someone who knows time is short, even without knowing it would be this short. He made his choices, some of them impossible to explain, others too brilliant to ignore. He was hard to sum up and that was always one of the things i loved most about him.

He left me a lot. More than he ever imagined.

He left me the ability to love in an absolute and total way, without filters or half measures. The certainty that life is meant to be lived with intensity, without apologising for taking up space. His laugh, rising up inside me in the most unexpected moments.

That is his legacy. The real one.

Today there is no cake, no candles. Just saudade, that love that doesn’t know where to go, and his perfume that I spray slowly, with my eyes closed, like a prayer.

Happy birthday, paizão. Wherever you are.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​