In the hush of the funeral home, a quiet drama unfolds around a newspaper
While saying goodbye to a friend, a distant relative lingered near the deceased’s body and traced circular paths around a newspaper the group held. Their faces shifted between solemnity and a sly humor, as if a news story were unfolding before them with gripping intensity. What would happen next? What events might actually take place? The mind wandered to an inexhaustible list of possible disasters—fires, upheavals, tremors, political shocks. The world, it seemed, often fed a preoccupation with worst-case scenarios, and thus hope rarely found a foothold in the news the speaker consumed. The tendency wasn’t born from personal fault but from the way the world often reads, reacts, and recycles fear.
With a hint of curiosity, the narrator moved closer to the circle. The gestures of the group swayed between gravity and laughter, as if they were testing the boundary between sorrow and relief. One invited him to draw nearer, inviting participation in the moment that felt both intimate and strange.
“What’s happening?” he asked, a direct question made in a tone that mixed wonder with concern.
“We read today’s horoscope for the dead,” came the reply, a line that landed with a curious blend of whimsy and reverence.
“And what does it say?” the observer pressed, seeking some sign or reassurance in the symbolic future sketched by the living and the departed alike.
The person holding the newspaper lowered his gaze and read aloud, the words hovering in the room like a message from beyond the ordinary: “It will be full, it will feel full, full, full, more alive than ever before, more daring, more daring, more fearless. Perhaps it is time to begin the journey postponed by fear and by completely unfounded worries.”
Laughing softly at the moment, the narrator tempered the urge to laugh out loud. To avoid drawing attention from the widow nearby, he stepped away from the circle and approached the window where his friend lay. The expression on his friend’s face suggested a quiet triumph, as if success had been earned through persistence rather than luck. The man, known to some as Enrique, seemed to radiate a sense of exuberance and fullness, as if the ordeal with illness had finally loosened its grip. It was as though a difficult stretch had been conquered, and a new freedom opened up just beyond the glass.
For a moment the narrator imagined death as a journey of its own, a voyage that Enrique had delayed for years, like all living beings who hesitate at the threshold. The idea felt strangely comforting, a path that could be taken with intention rather than fear. Before turning away, the narrator left a note in the condolence book, perhaps signaling a personal vow to remember the stubborn spark that life can ignite even in the face of loss. It echoed the opening cadence of a well-known voyage described by poets, a reminder that every ending can carry seeds of continuation.