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CARLOS MASSÓ MORA

In the month of the All Saints’ celebration, we commemorate my brother Carlos’s name day.

Each year, this date reminds me not only of the celebration that would have been his but also of everything he left unfinished in his life and in ours.

Thirty one years have passed since he left and there are still days when I find myself thinking of him as though he were still here. Thirty one years of silences, of memories that don’t age, of words that went unsaid and of moments that never existed. Thirty one years of imagining everything that could have been but wasn’t.

Sometimes I think about all that we missed, the words we never said, the glances we never managed to meet, the bond that only siblings know. I wonder what his life would have been like, what he would have loved, what would have made him happy. And it hurts not to know. I ache for the life we never got to share, the one that time, relentless, took away from us.

I regret not only your absence, but everything we were unable to build together, the advice, the small differences that, with patience, we would have known how to harmonize, the adventures, the laughter, the farewells that, had they existed, would never have been final and the simple moments that would have been enough for us to feel close. I feel the emptiness of all of that, like a space that time fails to fill.

And yet, beyond the pain, there is something inside me that has never stopped believing that this is not the end. That in the grand plan of the universe, there is something more. That our souls —sisters forever— will find a way to reunite. That everything we didn’t get to live, someday, in another life or another corner of time, will come true.

Until then, I carry his memory with me, present in every step. Sometimes it guides me. Sometimes it comforts me. Sometimes I feel his absence strongly. But he is always with me. He’s not here, but he is still part of me.

Perhaps this world wasn’t the full stage. Maybe here only the first act of a much bigger story was written. A certainty, as deep and firm as love itself, whispers to me that the best is yet to come. We will walk again, without hurry, laugh without fear, look at each other without the weight of goodbye. The universe, patient and wise, will know how to return every moment that time stole from us.

And while that day comes, I cling to the memory. Because memory holds love and love —the true kind, the one that springs from the soul— does not know endings. It survives everything, even death. It continues to live in those who loved him, in our words, in our gestures, in the dreams that still speak his name. He’s still here, in a thousand ways that I don’t always understand, but that I always feel.

And even though the world has kept turning without his presence, even though there are people I love who never got to know him, I know that had they met him, they would have loved him as much as I do. Because he was light. Because he still is.

I like to imagine him in a place where everything is possible, where each moment unfolds without hurry and every joy is multiplied. There, there are no limits that separated us here, his laughter travels freely and his gaze uncovers secrets of the world that we can hardly imagine. I think that in that space, he is still exactly who he was, but with infinite freedom and somehow, his energy continues to move through our world, ethereal, gently pushing my life, my choices, my days, like a silent wind that knows exactly where to blow.

Because true love doesn’t end with a last breath. There is no death that erases a bond so deep. And when that moment comes, we will know it without a doubt, like someone returning home after a long journey.

Then there will be no hurry. What wasn’t will be. We will laugh, we will walk together and perhaps we will cry, but not for the loss, but for the reunion. For all that awaits us beyond this life.

In the meantime, I’m still here. Living, remembering, trying to move forward. His absence weighs on my heart, but his mark remains in what’s essential, in my thoughts, in the way I am, in the simple things of everyday life. There is something of him in the way I look at the world, in the way I face life. His presence is no longer visible, but it is still real.

Carlos is not here, but he remains part of me. In every decision, in every word, in every emotion that connects me to the most human part of myself. Because he is and will always be an eternal fragment of my story, of my soul, of my being.

Thirty-one years without him… and at the same time, thirty-one years with me. In another way. In another form.
And still, I know —with all the strength of love that never dies— that the best between us has yet to happen.

In another life, under another sky, Carlos.
And this time, forever.

Francisco Massó Mora.

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