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CARLOS MASSÓ MORA

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

Every year, this date reminds me not only of the celebration he would have had 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 if he were still here. Thirty-one years of silence, of memories that do not age, of words left unsaid and of moments that never existed. Thirty-one years of imagining all that could have been but wasn’t.

Sometimes I think about everything we missed, the words we never said, the looks we never managed to share, the unspoken bonds 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. It hurts the life we never got to share and that time, relentless, took from us.

I mourn not only his absence but also everything we couldn’t build together, the advice, the small differences we would have learned to harmonize with patience, the adventures, the laughter, the farewells that, had they existed, would never have been final and the simple moments that would have been enough to feel close. I feel the emptiness of all that, like a space time cannot fill.

And yet, beyond the pain, there is something inside me that has never stopped believing this is not the end. That, in the grand design of the universe, there is something more. That our souls —siblings forever— will find a way to reunite. That everything left to live will one day come true, in another life or in another corner of time.

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 deeply. But he always accompanies me. He is not here, but he remains part of me.

Perhaps this world was not the complete stage. Maybe here only the first act of a much larger 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 arrives, I cling to the memory. Because memory holds love and love —the true love born from the soul— does not understand endings. It survives everything, even death. He continues living in those of us who love him, in our words, in our gestures, in the dreams that still name him. He is here, in a thousand ways I don’t always understand but always feel.

And even though the world has kept turning without him, even though there are people I love who never got to know him, I know that if they had, 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 every moment unfolds without rush and every joy multiplies. There, the limits that separated us here don’t exist; his laughter travels free and his gaze discovers secrets of the world that we could barely imagine. I think that, in that space, he is exactly who he was, but with infinite freedom and somehow his energy still moves in our world, ethereal, gently pushing my life, my decisions, my days, like a soft wind that knows exactly where to blow.

Because true love doesn’t end with a last breath. No death can erase such a deep bond. And when that moment comes, we will know without doubt, like someone returning home after a journey that was too long.

Then there will be no rush. What wasn’t will be. We will laugh, walk together and maybe cry, but no longer for the loss, but for the reunion. For everything that awaits us beyond this life.

Meanwhile, I remain here. Living, remembering, trying to move forward. His absence weighs on my heart, but his imprint remains in the essential, in my thoughts, in my way of being, in the simple things of everyday life. There is something of him in how I look at the world, in the way I face life. His presence is no longer visible, but it remains 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 yet, thirty-one years with me. In another way. In another form.
And still, I know —with all the strength of love that does not die— that the best between us has not yet happened.

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

Francisco Massó Mora.

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