1. Luckily, the sun is shining. A clear blue sky helps to soothe sad souls. Perhaps it doesn't offer complete comfort, but on a funeral morning, and even more so at a winter burial, it's a relief to have no rain, no fog, no added inclement weather to drag you into treacherous nostalgia. Behind a secular altar, with the Collserola forests as a backdrop, the friends speak first. They are the group, immune to the bombshell that is the passage of time. They had met at school and continued seeing each other, with a schedule and enthusiasm, until a week before, when they had all sat down together at the best restaurant in Bellaterra. They recount anecdotes of meals, cigars, rum cigarettes, and trips to Colombia that make us feel as if we had been there ourselves. Lluís Llach's music begins, and the six siblings—three boys and three girls—appear on stage. Sixty-three years is too short a time to die, but it's a long time to live together, to know your brother better than anyone else, through every stage of life. Their memories sway between humor and a newly discovered nostalgia that hurts as much as a new pair of shoes. They tell you what a mischievous boy he was, and those who knew him later in life, in his professional affability, laugh. They confess they're astonished by the media's praise in the news reports about his death. And even more so in newspaper obituaries. They suspected he was doing well at work, but not this well, or not so well recognized. The six of them embrace in an elegant dance of brotherhood, and more notes of Lluís Llach play while, on the screen, slender photographs, from here and there, capture scattered moments of happiness. "I didn't know he was so handsome," a cousin sitting next to her tells me. We began a pointless, hushed debate that abruptly ended. Suddenly, the thickest silence fell over the oratory. Behind the secular altar of the ceremony stood the only two people in the room who didn't call him by his name. They called him "Papa." His two children, the older and the younger, spoke hand in hand. They weren't even thirty yet, and their memories, like brushstrokes, were piling up, moments they felt compelled to share. Trips, laughter, their unique way of gazing at the sea from Menorca, or of cooking spicy paellas for large groups. And, above all, their love for their mother, the story they had built together in Sabadell. The emotion reached the back rows, those of friends, acquaintances, and colleagues. Someone felt a wave of emotion wash over them, another sniffled discreetly, and when a tear was glimpsed, a hand on the shoulder was appreciated, no matter where it came from. Every sentence spoken by the son exploded, like a hand grenade, in someone's heart. Not all emotions erupt at the same moment. Feelings often explode when you least expect them. Sometimes the trigger is a word, a memory, a sudden emotion that has taken a shortcut. The widow doesn't speak. Neither does Mom. Too much grief. It's not the way of life, saying goodbye to a child. And it sounds Crazy about you...the anthem we've made our own for every expression of love. How lucky I was to do it alone. And what a shame I didn't get to try your shrimp pan.
2. I'm going to see this afternoon Three goodbyesI was completely wrong. I really enjoyed Isabel Coixet's film, but with that title—and without having read the synopsis—I could have guessed what it was about. It's a celebration of life, but after a morning filled with so many hugs in Collserola, it wasn't the day for such contrasting emotions. And, as if it were a sign, the film is shot in Italian and moves to Rome, one of the last places in Eugenio's life. When someone is gone, everything brings you back to them and the images of the farewell. Sitting in the cinema, I remember a scene from the funeral. The friends carried the written eulogy on paper, the siblings looked at the script on an iPad, and the children placed their phones on the lectern. These are, also, three ways of saying goodbye.
