Yesterday Gabriel García Márquez passed away. I was saddened, and in my mind imagined that all the yellow butterflies in the world had gathered to escort him to heaven.
I’ve thought for a long time, and truthfully can’t remember when I first read One Hundred Years of Solitude. What I do know is that my copy is tattered, the pages worn thin from so many turns, and the book wrinkled from being exposed to the elements, perhaps caught in a rainstorm on the beach, or perhaps the victim of an overturned drink on a flight.
I loved his use of language. I loved the magical mixed with the reality. I loved the history of Macondo, and the generations that lived and loved there. Most of all, I loved the yellow butterflies that followed Mauricio. So much so that whenever I see a swarm of butterflies, I imagine he’s near. It taught me to look for the magical in my life and honor it.
I’m sad that Señor García Márquez won’t have the chance to share any more of his tremendous stories with the world. It’s probably time to re-read a few of his stories. And remember the magic.