Sadness seldom visited my childhood days; however I remember that October morning, the sun showing only its shyness or anguish, refused to give us its evening light.

Something was in the air; a sad aura flew over the almond trees in the schoolyard. As a dream I remember the slow pace of the director, the overwhelming rictus of her countenance, the endless pause after her greeting, the silence that multiplied among those present in that blue morning date.

There in the never forgotten school of La Higuera, the hero who surpassed the limits of Argentine geography to join the assault on the dawn, which would star those who traveled in the mythical Yate Granma, which would then march as Quixote of these times to other lands in need of his modest efforts, would have been the victim of cowardice and the ignorance of someone unaware that it is impossible to disappear greatness, whose only merit, if it can be called that, is to have shot at immortality.

Today the world would celebrate together with a people who adopted him as a son, after giving us the greatest gift, the daily example, his unlimited delivery to justice, to truth, to equity. However, I would prefer to remember him like that, as the most handsome man in the world, with that look that immortalized the photographer Korda, who described it full of anger when the wild events of the La Coubre steam attack took place, for others it would be the living reflection of the deepest pain.

 

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