The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [31]
The mourners pondered his words. The ones who couldn’t hear clearly squeezed closer to him. Then he concluded:
“Jesus wanted to demonstrate that a wake may be a place of tears, but it should, above all else, be an atmosphere flooded with praise and solemn remembrance. Mourning should be a perfume, an homage to the departed. A setting for recounting his life and his words. A word of praise can be said about any person. Please, tell me of this man’s deeds. Tell me how he impacted your lives. His silence should give wing to our voices.”
At first the mourners just looked at one another. Then what happened was incredible. Many of them began relating unique stories that they had experienced with him. They spoke of the legacy he had left. His kindness. His loyalty. His capacity to deal with failure. His unyielding affection. His friendship.
Others, now more at ease, joked about his mannerisms. There were those who said he loved nature. One friend said, “I never met anyone as stubborn and obstinate.” And in a setting where usually no one smiles, people laughed at the memory, including Antonio and the widow, because they knew how stubborn he could be. A friend added, “But he taught me that we must never give up on what we love.”
There were twenty incredible minutes of heartfelt memories. People didn’t know how to describe the fascinating emotional experience they had had. Marco Aurelio was alive. At that moment, the dreamseller looked at us, his disciples, and said, whether joking or serious I don’t know, “When I die, don’t despair. Instead, speak of my dreams and my wild desires.”
Some people laughed at the strange and amusing man who had lifted them from the valley of despair to the peak of serenity. As incredible as it seems, even young Antonio smiled. There, in that room where so many lavished praised on the deceased, the dreamseller sold a dream to the young boy who had lost his father.
“Antonio, look what a brilliant human being your father was, despite his shortcomings. Don’t hold back your tears. Weep as many times as you desire, but don’t let his loss make you lose hope. Just the opposite. Honor your father by living maturely. Honor him by confronting your fears. Praise him by being generous, creative, affectionate, sincere. Live wisely. I believe that if your father could use my voice at this moment to say something to you, he would implore you: ‘Son, go forward! Don’t be afraid of the journey. Be afraid of missing out on life.’”
Antonio felt his spirits lift. That was all he needed to hear. He would still cry. Longing would beat mercilessly in his chest. But he would know how to put commas instead of periods in his life when he encountered loneliness, when he came upon sorrow. His life would take on new dimensions.
The dreamseller prepared to leave, but first he left the mourners with his final thoughts, the same questions that had shaken me atop the San Pablo Building.
“Are we living atoms that disintegrate and never again become what they were? What is existence or nonexistence? What mortal can know? Who has dissected death to expose its true essence? Is death the end or the beginning?”
Enraptured, people approached me and asked, “Who is that man? Where does he come from?” What could I answer? I didn’t know either. They asked the same of Bartholomew and, unfortunately, he found himself answering the questions. Honeymouth enjoyed weaving theories about things he didn’t know. Puffing out his chest, he replied:
“Who’s the chief? He’s from another world. And if you need anything, I’m his adviser on international affairs.”
Dimas, the newest member of our group, stunned by everything he’d heard, replied honestly. “I don’t know who he is. All I know is he dresses like a pauper but he seems to be very rich, indeed.”
Sofia, Antonio’s mother, was deeply grateful