In memoriam, Axel Prestegui

I write for the same reason I breathe… because if I didn’t, I’d die. This is a phrase from Isaac Asimov, a writer that Pres liked very much, and with which I feel extremely identified. Writing has always been my safe place. I rarely feel like I don’t express everything I want to with it, and this is one of those times. Writing this text was quite challenging but also quite easy; challenging because of the wounds it opens and what it confronts, but easy because I’ve talked about this a lot in my head in the last few weeks, and I feel like I could talk about him for a lifetime. I did not know where to start and although I will leave out of this writing many stories, reflections and feelings, I repeat these words that I heard this week: “We will never make mistakes from the heart and from respect”. I hope that some of the words that lie in this text resonate with you.

The first photograph I took of you—or at least the one I have a record of—is from August 27, 2015. He was sitting at a piano, in a room of the beautiful Prepa 6. I remember how we used to sneak in, with the innocence of a child playing pranks, because we weren’t supposed to be there. They never told us anything. Other times we would find the room closed, and then we would go a few blocks from there, to the Faculty of Music. I have several vivid memories of those moments, isolated from the noise of the busy streets of Coyoacán. Recently, a friend told a story about how one day she went with you—also on the sly—to some beach volleyball courts. That time, a lady found them and asked them to leave. Nothing serious, and the only consequence was a nice shared memory. Recently, I found the parking meter ticket from the last shared café. At times, I’d say I can feel you. At times, I’d say you’re closer than ever.

I will always remember those innocent and fun escapades, when we had an unexpected and delicious toast at Universum with wine and snacks that we devoured, and how you told me “grab two and bring one for me?”, when we went to get your tattoos done, when we saw Billie Eilish at the Corona, when we ran the counter in the robotics course, the two times we met Alcubierre, when you were so happy with your new piano, when we shared transverse flute lessons and you helped me to practice—you were always very good at music, when I told you “what a nice ring” and you gave it to me without thinking twice, of every birthday cake—because we shared a lot of them, of the pictures you showed me of your trips, when you asked me for advice to buy your graduation suit, when you said “I’m not going to study physics anymore” joking because you had a magic trick that we never found an explanation for, or when we started taking pictures with my camera on the roof of my former home and when we saw that your birthday would have a full moon.

And of course I will also remember every party, every outing, every time you walked me home, every museum Wednesday, the exhibitions, the fairs, the book presentations and the shared authors. I always had so much fun with you, I always came back better than I had left.

A story that moved me and at the same time made a lot of sense to me, is the one your mom shared about when you went to CU for the first time, and how when you returned home you said “today I knew the school where I want to study”. You with that discernment, that congruence and acting in consequence of each decision, what always characterized you. I look at that story and I look with admiration to a free man—because you did and were what you wanted to do and be. I deeply admire the authenticity in you. I hope I always have the courage and opportunity to accept and renounce, to say yes to what I do and no to what I do not.

I have talked about you with people who did not know you and there is a mutual opinion of affection. So far, small pieces—Asimov, a piano, volleyball, math—that are clues of a literate man, on music, with hobbies, on science. And between the lines, all the people we had the opportunity to share with you. All these pieces are traces that lead us to a man like no other. A noble heart, a brilliant mind, a matchless personality, a very special sense of humor that I loved… A friend, son, grandson, nephew, cousin, student, computer scientist, musician, mathematician, teacher, colleague, an extraordinary man, without a doubt. You always expressed yourself well about your friends, your mom, your dad, your family. I always look at you with a smile on my face and I think anyone who knows you can say the same.

There are things in life that we choose to call coincidences, like the fact that exactly three months ago I got back home to Mexico City after living abroad for a year and a half, that exactly two months ago we went out to Viveros and had lunch, and that exactly one month ago I watched you giving a talk at IMATE. That last day I met you is still fresh in my mind. I was “late” and I had a lot of things to do, but I went and I will always be grateful for having done it. The room where you gave the talk was full and we enjoyed it very much.

Recently, I listened to a podcast that talked about grief, and they quoted an excerpt from a book by Murakami that I want to share with you:

“Sometimes fate resembles a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction. You change course trying to avoid it. And then the storm changes direction too, following you. You change direction again. And the storm changes direction again, as before. And this is repeated again and again. Like a macabre dance with Death before dawn. And the reason is that the storm is not something that comes from far away and has no relation to you. This storm is ultimately you. It is something that is inside you. The only thing you can do is to resign yourself to it, get into it head first, cover your eyes and ears tightly so that they don’t fill with sand and go through it step by step. And inside there is no sun, no moon, no direction, sometimes there is not even time. There is only fine white sand, like bone dust, dancing high in the sky. Imagine a storm like this. And when the sandstorm has passed, you will not understand how you managed to cross it alive. No! You will not even be sure that the storm has really ceased. But one thing will be clear. And that is that the person who emerges from the storm will not be the same person who entered it. And therein lies the significance of the sandstorm.”

The book is called Kafka on the Shore.

And so it goes. A sandstorm that is part dust, part laughs, part memory, part poem, part ritual, part melted wax, part living, withered, potential and rotten flowers. A sandstorm that is everything and nothing, that does not find solace alone, does not find a channel alone. I am navigating these days with a new patience, with a new curiosity, with a new openness. Giving oneself permission sounds like something to do these days. Letting be.

Thank you for always being willing to listen to me with attentive ears, for all the times you took me home, for every achievement, for being my team in the labs, for sharing hobbies with me. Thank you for always being willing to help, to make time in your busy academic life for your friends and family. For the classes shared first by mandatory training in our beloved P6 and then shared by conviction in our also beloved Faculty. Thank you for every laugh, for every loving word, for celebrating every birthday… because you were always there. For every comforting hug, for every shared achievement, for every deep or casual talk, for every dilemma, advice, Christmas dinner, for every game and for every concert, for every shared nerve before an exam. Thank you for being that accomplice of so many stages, so many changes, so many paths, so many questions, so many years… Thank you for the photos, for the afternoons after school, the coffees, thank you for trusting me for so many things, for sharing your life with me. I can only thank you. I don’t have a single thing to reproach you for. Not one. Thank you for being such a beautiful company.

Thank you for the great example of life. I told you and I repeat it because I confirm it every time: you improved all the lives you touched. Thank you for that and more, thank you for everything.

The people who heard me talk about you are witnesses of how much I loved you and how much I love you. I will always miss you. You live in more spaces and people than I think you could ever imagine. And for you who listen to me: you are much more than you think.

Like I said, I could go on and on about him for the rest of my life. And, actually, I think I will.

That’s what you are… tenderness, intelligence, responsibility, humility, kindness, joy, perseverance, authenticity. That’s who you are. That and much more.

That place you have in our hearts is now irreplaceable, untouchable. We will accommodate it as beautifully as we can for you to live in it comfortably.

I trust we are always on time, that we can always choose differently, in the times of life and in that inner voice that always guides us to the right place, there is always the option to look and embrace what we love and who we love. I send you—we send you, all the light, all the peace and a long hug. We loved you, we love you and we will love you.

I am deeply sorry that you are no longer here. But the past is indelible. You will live in every heartbeat of those of us who remember you, in every note, in every flower and in every sky. When I finish reading our book, I will tell you what I thought of it. Until always and thank you always, beloved friend.