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You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.

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On the afternoon of your death anniversary,
Hand in hand with my daughter,
My other hand holding a bouquet of red roses,
We arrived at the spot on the wooded lane
Where a grooved-bark, mature oak
Watched over your memorial stone,
Nestled in moss, twigs, and clover.
Mottled, watery sunlight bathed the stone
As if illuminating a sacred site.

The limestone or sandstone looked rough,
And had weathered over all these years.
Beneath the relief of a motocross rider,
A marble plaque bore the inscription,
“Izar Lizarraga Oyarbide (1981-1999).
She lived fast and died young,
But her light will shine forever.”
My childhood sweetheart,
My restless wildfire.

I crouched in front of the stone
To deposit the bouquet at its base.
I pulled out a pack of wet wipes
And wiped away the dust and grime.
I scrubbed off a white splatter of bird droppings.

The murmur of families filtered through the trees.
A flock of sheep baahed from the nearby hill.
In the stone’s relief, your helmeted figure
Clutched the bike’s handlebars,
Head tilted forward in intense focus.
Every time I laid my eyes on this figure,
My breath caught, my throat clenched,
And I struggled to loosen the knot
Twisted inside my chest.

“How long ago was nineteen ninety-nine?”
My daughter’s innocent voice asked.
After a pause, I said, “A long time ago.”
“Was she a friend of yours?”
“Yes, the best one.”

My daughter shifted her weight from foot to foot
As her attention drifted further down the lane.
I held her little hand tightly in mine,
And we stepped onto the sun-dappled sidewalk.
A familiar warmth built up behind my eyes:
Tears burning their way out.
The vision of a bumblebee weaving its waltz
Across clumps of yellow and white wildflowers
Became a watercolor blur.

Grief had ambushed me once again:
A monstrous hand reaching out of the deep
To grab me by the chest and drag me down.
I know it will remain my constant companion
For the rest of my days.

That week, I pondered why
I had brought my daughter to visit you.
I was terrified that, after my death,
Nobody who came across your name
Or gazed upon the memorial stone
Would understand what had been lost,
What you still mean to me.
I needed my child to be haunted by you,
To carry your spirit in her heart,
But I feared no amount of talk
Could transmit the depths of pain and love.
So, the memories of you would disappear,
Forgotten even by the spiders
That had built their webs within me.

One day, maybe not long from now,
After the kids we dragged into this world
Have freed themselves from their miserable parents
And claimed a home of their own,
I will lie in my deathbed alone,
Connected to beeping machines.
By then, you will feel like a sunken ship
Deep at the bottom of the sea.
Suddenly, I will breathe in a pungent odor of rust,
And from the center of my consciousness,
A sinkhole will open, a growing black hole.
As the edges of my self crumble and collapse,
Into that darkness, I will reach for your hand.

I doubt the value of words:
Pictures and music capture emotions better.
Yet, this old boy can only play with words,
And I’ve engaged in the game of pretending
That they can bridge the chasms between us.

For decades, a barbed pain has grown its tendrils
From the core of my heart throughout my body,
Creeping into every tissue and organ,
Embedding hooks deep in my bones,
As the pain reached the farthest ends of me.
My wish: that the right combination of words
Could sever a scion of this piercing truth
And graft it onto someone else’s heart.

So thank you, stranger,
For reading thousands of words
Of the only tale I care to tell,
My elegy for Izar Lizarraga,
Motocross legend,
Love of my life,
Who blazed through this world,
And burned away.

* * *

The night of April 27, 1999,
You parked in front of the candy shop.
Drenched under the torrential barrage,
We clambered off and removed our helmets.
The taste of rain mingled with your saliva
While the Aprilia’s idling engine rattled
Like a hiker hopping from foot to foot,
Eager to move on.

We wished each other good night.
Thunder growled as you straddled
Your gleaming yellow-and-white bike.
You pulled on your helmet,
Gripped the handlebars,
And lifted the side stand with a kick,
When I shouted, burning my throat,
“Wait!”

Startled, you straightened up,
One foot planted on the sidewalk,
And turned the reflective visor toward me.
I ran to you and hugged you,
Pressing my cheek against the cold helmet.
“You don’t intend to return home, do you?
Who would be so stupid to believe
That you’d go back to your father so soon?
I can’t let you leave, Izar;
If I do, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
Stay with me tonight.”

I held your gloved hand
As you stumbled off the Aprilia.
You lifted the visor of your helmet,
Revealing large chocolate eyes
That reflected a shimmer of amber light.
Your brows were furrowed in concern.
From one nostril hung a bead of watery mucus.
“I’d much rather do that,” you said,
“But your mother forbade me from coming back.”
“I’ve taken enough shit from her.
She can suck it up.”
You shook with silent laughter.

I opened the front door to the sight of my parents.
My mother scowled, deepening the lines of her face.
Beside the woman, two steps back, stood my father,
A bald, stooped, hesitant non-entity.

Upon noticing Izar, my mother’s eyes widened.
She opened her mouth to scold me,
But I cut her off.
“Look at what her father has done.”
I brushed away the damp strands of caramel hair
Clinging to the cheek that sported a bruise,
The mottled imprint of your father’s hand.
“Izar can’t go home tonight. It’s not safe.
She’ll stay with me, no matter what you say.”

A glance at the bruise loosened my mother’s brow.
You bowed your head.
“Sorry for bothering you.
I didn’t intend to cause trouble.”
My mother narrowed her eyes.
“You rode here through this downpour?
Girl, you don’t have any common sense!”
“Sorry.”
She tsked, then threw her hands up.
“You pair of idiots. Go take a warm shower.
No, take off your jackets and shoes first.
You’re going to leave puddles all over the house.
My goodness, look at how soaked you are!
Do you want to catch pneumonia?”

As you and I padded hand in hand to the bathroom,
My mother turned to my father, seeking support,
But he shrugged and said,
“Let them be. They’re in love.”

Locked inside the bathroom,
We peeled each other’s soaked clothes,
Then chucked them on the ceramic tiles,
Where they lay like beached jellyfish.

When you untied your ponytail,
The cascading hair stuck to your shoulders.
You rubbed your pruney fingertips.
“We might get sick for real,” you said,
Then sniffled some leaking mucus back in.

I embraced you firmly,
Pressing your stiff nipples against my chest.
You shuddered once, then continued to tremble.
I whispered in your ear,
“My love, in case you have any doubts,
I’ll run away with you.”
You sighed, your breath warm on my neck,
And slid your hands down my back.
“Thank you.”

As we melted into each other,
I caressed the contours of your skin,
The myriad details unique to you
That before you were born,
Hadn’t existed in the universe,
And after you died, never would again.

Yes, Izar, I would accompany you,
Riding pillion, clinging to your waist,
Through the rush of wind and rain,
To witness the sights you longed to see,
To experience what it meant to live.
We would create a shared language,
Speak words that others would find insane,
And build our own space far away.
Nobody could compete with you,
The sole real person in the world.
As long as you were with me,
I was home.

THE END

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Author’s note: the last song is “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure.

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You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.

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The eve of your death anniversary
Resurrected the old nightmare once more:
I was riding pillion, clinging to your waist,
While your Aprilia Red Rose growled
As it devoured the highway under its tires.
The rainfall hammering upon car roofs,
Drumming on our helmets,
Splashing against our drenched clothes,
Overwhelmed the steady roar of the engines.
The wind drove icy raindrops into my face.

The beam of your bike’s headlamp
Sliced through the rain sheets,
Lighting the rear wheels of the truck in front,
That spat up trails of rainwater.
In the oncoming lane, twin beams appeared
And quickly expanded toward us,
Cutting luminous swaths across the blackness.
On my right, traffic signs, trees, buildings,
They all blurred into smudges,
And the sparse streetlamps revealed themselves
Like floating, shimmering haloes.

Lights glinted off the gleaming, mirrorlike tarmac
In ripples of red and blue-tinged white.
Above, lightning leaped from cloud to cloud,
Followed by grumbling thunderclaps.

In my embrace, your body trembled;
You were crying, or at least on the verge,
And you channeled that anguish
Igniting your steel beast’s roar
With a wrench of the throttle.
My heart thrummed with dread.
The acceleration pressed against my bones,
Tightening my chest and freezing my breath.
Along with the golden tracers of streetlamps,
Oncoming vehicles whooshed past us.

Lighting the way ahead, we were falling headlong,
Whipping through the darkness like an arrow.
Teary-eyed from the sting of rain,
I raised my voice over the rushing wind,
Over the rumbling engines.
I shouted, I yelled, I gripped your sides tighter,
Imploring you to slow down.
As if you couldn’t hear me, as if I wasn’t there,
You revved the throttle further,
Making the speedometer needle climb sharply.
Your bike’s chassis shuddered under the strain.
The raindrops felt like dozens of fingers
Poking my numb face to wake me up,
But you kept racing through the storm,
Maybe wishing to outrun yourself,
Outrun all the voices telling you to stop.

As we approached a curve, your Aprilia wobbled,
Its front wheel skidded on the rain-slick tarmac,
And the bike lurched sideways,
Flinging us off.

The color spectrum gleaming through the downpour
From headlights, tail lights, streetlamps, and lightning
Spun into a blur of light and dark
While my body flailed, limbs striking out,
Scraping against the road as I slid
With rainwater gushing over me.
The friction ripped through my clothing,
Seared my skin, and tore the flesh off my bones.
Screams lodged in my throat.

Your Aprilia Red Rose was flipping end-over-end,
Scattering pieces of its decimated bodywork.
My frantic gaze glimpsed flashes,
Illuminated by the headlights of passing cars,
Of your body cartwheeling uncontrollably.

A murky shape, the guardrail,
Rushed out of the rain-haze toward us
Like a reef thrusting from a savage ocean.
You smashed against the metal barrier,
Which launched you into the darkness.
I clenched my eyes shut, bracing for impact,
And awaited the final, wet crunch.
When I slammed into that guardrail,
A loud snap reverberated through my spine
In a starburst of pain.

The impact had squeezed my lungs,
Knocking the air out.
As I gasped, mouth agape,
A thunderous crash against the guardrail
Sent a shockwave through the cold steel,
Making me, slumped against it, shudder violently.
Fragments of the bike ricocheted off the barrier
And stung my arms and face like shrapnel.
The metallic clang lingered as a discordant ringing.

Your Aprilia lay on its side close by,
Gleaming darkly in muddy rainwater,
Its windscreen shattered,
Frame bent, chassis mangled,
Front wheel still spinning.
A rearview mirror dangled from its stem,
And reflected the electric clouds.
Fuel leaked out of the dented tank.
The headlamp’s white beam,
Shining through the cracks in the lens,
Faltered, flickered, then faded away.

The ozone scent of the storm mingled
With the chemical smell of gasoline,
The burnt stench of grinding metal,
And the bitterness on my tongue.
A tingling white noise had spread
To the farthest reaches of my body,
And in the places that hadn’t gone numb,
My shredded flesh screamed
In a fiery, knifelike pain.

Instead of writhing in the gutter
Like a crushed insect,
I would return to your side,
But when I tried to stand,
My limp legs refused to move.
I grabbed the cold, wet guardrail,
Then heaved myself over it.
I hit the grassy, upward slope chest-first,
And mud splattered on my face.

I crawled onward, clawing at the grass and soil,
Coating my hands with squelchy mud.
The relentless pounding of heavy rain
Along with the deep rumble of distant thunder
Isolated me in a cocoon of noise.
Every creep up the slope ripped me open with hurt.
In jagged gasps, I breathed razors.
Where are you, Izar? Where are you?

The blades of grass glistened
With a fresh spray of blood.
Silvery light from turning headlights
Swam in waves over a body splayed face up
Like a doll tossed in a tantrum.
Your drenched, ripped red jacket gleamed.
Gashes oozed through the torn jeans.
The crushed helmet still clung to your head.

Beside you, I pushed myself up onto my knees,
And lifted the cracked visor of your helmet.
Raindrops splattered in concentric circles
On the blood pooling within the face aperture.

I attempted to take your helmet off,
But your neck strained, its muscles taut,
As if your head might snap off.
You couldn’t breathe.
“Stay with me, Izar. Don’t leave me, please.”
When I scooped blood out of the hole,
My fingers didn’t graze your face.
I sank my hand up to my wrist, to the elbow,
But I couldn’t reach you.

I woke up with a start, drenched in sweat,
Gasping for breath, clutching at my throat.

My fingers are calloused
From decades of clawing
At the dark soil of this world
To drag myself back to you.

---

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Author’s note: the song for today is “I Lost You” by The Walkmen.

The next part will conclude this story.

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You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.

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I used to know every contour of your face,
The exact timbre of your voice,
The way your body pressed against mine,
Your taste, the salty scent of your sweat.
But your traces are flaking off my brain;
In the seams and margins of my memories,
Bugs and patches have appeared,
Corroding the integrity of a past
That I’m editing, shaping with bias,
As I revisit it time and time again.
Your gaze, your smile, your laughter,
They all fade away into oblivion
With each ticking second.

Izar, I beg you, stay with me.
Let’s leave this suffocating city
On a motocross odyssey spanning Europe:
Hundreds of kilometers of highways,
Speeding through the countryside
Past petrol stations, fields, and farmhouses.
We’ll make love on the shores of the sea,
Then sleep under a blanket of stars.
Let’s rent bikes and ride along the Seine.
Let’s explore the winding streets of Venice,
Swim in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean,
Surf the waves of Hawaii or Costa Rica,
Climb the ancient terraces of Machu Picchu.
For the rest of my days, I will care for you,
Your unstable mind, your fits of rage.

Growing up, I feared venturing far
From my neighborhood, from my parents.
I dreaded exposing myself to risky experiences.
In my mind, I saw my mother’s stern face,
Ready to scold and ground me
For daring to struggle against the vines
She had wrapped tight around me.
Roam the breadth of Spain? Travel the world?
Such adventures felt as distant as the stars.
I was convinced that even as an adult,
I wouldn’t organize something so troublesome.

But that year, I stood in the blazing Roman heat
With my teenage son beside me
And my daughter’s small hand grasped in mine,
Gazing up at the façade of the Pantheon,
Its towering Corinthian columns glowing faintly,
Burned by the merciless July sun;
Its triangular pediment pockmarked, scarred,
With projectile strikes from World War II.
I longed to appreciate its grandeur in solitude,
But a throng of tourists choked the square.
A listless guy stood dressed like a centurion,
His helmet adorned with a plume of dyed horsehair.
The muscle cuirass concealed the flab
Of a modern man suited to a desk job.

The Pantheon didn’t belong in this post-apocalypse,
Among the disoriented survivors of the 21st century,
Who lacked the knowledge to recreate
The sunlit glory of their once eternal past,
And who had lost the will to rediscover it.

Well, what did you think about the sights, Izar?
We never had the chance to escape together,
But I carried your memory to Rome.
I hope you enjoyed the trip.

In my little corner of the world, whenever I could,
I escaped to the freedom of an isolated bench
Along the wooded lane containing your memorial stone.
There, beneath the sunlight filtering through branches,
Hunched over a notebook, I poured my memories of us,
Capturing in words every detail I could remember.
I discovered that writing tricked the brain
Into gilding moments and affixing them to its cells,
Regardless of their authenticity.

Drawing, writing, they couldn’t save me;
They just helped me endure this lonesome life
For yet another day.
But maybe the right words could save
What remained of you.

In my heart, a secret garden bloomed.
Pollen sparkled on iridescent flowers,
Their petals fanning out like peacock feathers.
In this floral realm where time stood still
And death could never enter,
You, enshrined within a poem or story
That wouldn’t fade, rot, nor be reduced to ashes,
Could live eternally.

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Author’s note: the songs for today are “This Is the One” by The Stone Roses, and “Sit Down” by James.