You, who will paint the sunrises

To Martina, who may not remember this character, but that is hers, as much as her blood.

Some people say there is no one who does not come into your life just at the right time, with a stated mission.

I believe in that. I believe that you, Gemma, came into my life to paint the sunrises.

I am guilty, I must confess: a few years ago I hated Spain and Spanish people. Nothing to be surprised about: Latin Americans have a love-hate relationship with the country that taught us the language and its citizens, who pronounce all the z and the c correctly. A historical resentment, illustrated by many history lessons and by many hateful graffitis, makes us hate them occasionally, especially with their insistence on speaking in a way that, for us, sounds like from Don Quixote's times.

However, at that time, I had a kind of post-traumatic stress reason: my boyfriend dumped me for a Spanish girl. Since then, I suffered from Spain-phobia and I hated everything that smelled like peninsular. While the World Cup was played in South Africa in 2010, I supported, from bars in my town crowded with the local Dutch community, the Clockwork Orange Team with all the possible fervor, willing that Piqué, Iniesta and el Niño Torres would pay with their blood that red rage that burned inside me. Needless to say, when they won the cup, my reaction was more visceral than that one from the well mannered Dutch, who watched me meanwhile they were eating their traditional cheese and drinking their Heineken with an air of resignation.

I was with this Iberian irrational hatred when a friend of mine, from my volunteer time in Africa, asked me to host her, four Koreans and a Spanish girl for a few days at my house in San Jose, Costa Rica, while they were on a trip towards Belize. She is Brazilian so I had no problem, neither with the Koreans, but with the Spanish girl ... Fuck, a Spanish! Really: do I have to endure that accent for two days in my own house? Rediez!

Of course, obviously, I would ended up enduring it. One thing is to wish that the soccer team of an entire country loses the world championship and another one to close the door to a person in the face.

And so, one of those typical rainy afternoons in my city, Gemma came to my house. A girl with glasses, pierced chin and dreds, which she used to adjust with a knitting needle, meanwhile she was sitting on the sofa.

Two Koreans, plus Gemma, plus two Koreans, plus Silvana, from Brazil.

That was the beginning of my Spanish exorcism. I like her so much since the beginning... And not only that. She gave me a feeling that I had not experienced since I was seven years old.

At that time I was on first grade and I perfectly remember a girl who was a year older than me. I liked everything about her. The way she combed her hair, her earrings, her shoes, her name, her house, her parent's car, her attitude, her way of walking, everything. Absolutely everything. I would have mistaken it with a lesbian feeling if I had not discovered, since I was three years old, that I already had a deep and extremely strong passion for men. What this girl generated in me was another feeling I had not previously experienced: admiration. The admiration for another woman of my same age.

Among the pride of my teens and my attempt to build my own personality, I didn't feel that way in more than 20 years until I met Gemma. I saw her and wanted to be like her. I wanted to be a graphic artist and create a world full of colors and characters (which she called Pusinky; "kisses" in Slovak). I wanted to dress like her. I wanted to have that creativity and that magnetism; when she entered into a room, you just could not stop staring at her. Man, and that was not my impression only: while she visited a school in Costa Rica, the children asked her for autographs. No wonders: I was also fascinated with the character whom I had opened the door of my house.

While she was grooming her dreds with the needle and I was talking with her in the living room, both of us kept by my first communion photo (my mom refuses to remove it from the wall, for my great despair) I mentioned that I was saving money to go to Brazil and look for my ex boyfriend, that one who left me for a Spanish girl.

She looked at me and said to me two things: one, that her mother also had some pictures of her first communion and her sister's hanging on the living room's wall and that I should not feel embarrassed about it, because that was a thing that mothers do, here in Costa Rica, in Spain and in Mars. And two, that she understood that idiot desire to love somebody, even if he doesn't love you back. She understood me with the heart and not with the head, not as the rest of my friends, who tried, unsuccessfully, to convince me to let go someone who was already lost anyway.

Silvana, Gemma and me.

Eventually, I changed my mind and I decided to look for you, you, who are Spanish as well and who I will love until the day I die. Spanish, as Gemma. So after ranting against Spain, the first country I visited was, ironically, Spain. I do not know how they let me go through Barajas Airport, considering my evil desires against their glorious soccer team. Somehow meeting Gemma made me think that I could resist, at least for a few days, that accent. And you already know how it was: we even ended up going to watch Torrente 4, on a cold and rainy night.

A couple of months later, I decided to declare my love for you in a video. I recruited my friends across the world and I asked each of them to send me a video in their respective languages, telling you how much I love you. The very first video that I got was from Gemma. It was like she was with me on my way to make peace not only with Spain, but also with my deepest feelings.

One snowy night, when I was drinking a cup coffee with my mom in Amsterdam (yes, with that same lady who refuses to remove that lovely picture of me, toothless and dressed in a white dress), I read on Facebook that Gemma was receiving chemotherapy. I knew she was sick for some time, she used to post everything from her bed in the hospital. Even with that, she was awsome: she was able to make people believe that to be in a clinic's room was something magical, as she posted Instagram pictures, messages and drawings she did with her tireless colors, which were immune to anything. I clicked on the “like” button of her picture shaving her head. I knew she had done it before, when she shaved those dreds she used to groom with her needle. I clicked on that like not for compassion, not even for solidarity: I clicked on that like because I was sure that if there was a woman who could shave her head and always look beautiful, was her.

Gemma with a pusinsky.

Eventually, more photos and drawings arrived. Papers to rip off. Papers to drill with the pencil. Papers to scribble without control. It was a reflection of what she was living. A struggle which was bleeding all that creativity, that splashed in colorful drops.

When May began to decline, she posted a black and white photo of herself. She was running out of colors, although I could not believe it. I draw exactly as I did in second grade, without any hyperbole, I have no talent, but instead I write and I refused to take out this character from my novel. No, the heroine never dies. She will recover and we will see each other again, although we both know, as travel junkies, that always that good bye can be the last farewell.

One Saturday afternoon, while I was checking Facebook after a nap, I found the following poem, accompanied by a cartoon of her, full of color and pusinkys.

When I leave, I don't want you to cry,

Stay in silence without saying any word,

And live on memories, that comforts the soul.

When I sleep, respect my sleep

For some reason I fall asleep, for some reason I left.

If you feel my absence don't pronounce anything

And almost in the air with very fine pitch

Meet me at my house, look for me in my letters,

Among the papers I have written in a hurry.

Wear my shirt, my sweater, my coat,

And you can wear all of my shoes.

I'll lend you my room, my pillow, my bed,

In cold weather, wear my scarves.

You can eat all the chocolate

And drink the wine I left.

Listen to that song that I used to like,

Use my perfume and water my plants.

If they cover my body do not feel sorry for me,

Run to the open space, free your soul.

Touch the poetry, the music, the singing

And let the wind play with your face,

Kiss the soil, drink all the water,

And learn the living language of the birds.

If you miss me too much, hide it.

Look for me in the children, the coffee, the radio,

and that spot where I used to hide myself.

Do not ever say the word “death”.

Sometimes it's sad to live forgotten

Than die a thousand times and be remembered.

When I sleep,

don't bring any flowers to a bitter grave

Shout with all your strength

That the world is alive and keeps going.

The flame will not dissapear

For the simple fact that it's not there anymore.

Living men never die,

They sleep sometimes, not for so long

Sleep and infinity are just an excuse.

When I leave stretch out your hand

And you'll be sealing with me

And although you can not see me, and although you can not touch me

You'll know that I'll always be by your side.

Then one day, smiling and vibrant

You will know that I returned to not leave again.

(I'm going to look for my bearded guy.

Don't wait awake for me).

I knew, then, that the color had returned to her. But she was gone.

And then, with tears in my eyes, I saw the cartoon sadly blurry, and I had to say goodbye to one of my favorite heroines.

Living women never die. They only sleep sometimes. I will know that every morning when I wake up and I will see the world's most beutiful dawn. Then I'll know, Gemma, that you've woken up already and you'll be coloring it. And that, indeed, you have never gone away.