While at Mexico City College from1962 to 1963 I took every course of philosophy that Ramón Xirau taught. He began with the pre-Socratics and ended with Sartre. I was much affected when Xirau told us that Epicurus taught that humans fear pain but should not fear death as the moment of death is painless.

This was in my mind when on December 9, 2020 my Rosemary asked, “Am I dying?” I was speechless. Now 6 years later I tell myself I should have hugged her and told her, “I am with you and I love you.”

Because Rosemary was a financial wizard I do not have to worry about making money. I live alone with a female cat and I spend a lot of time in thought.

Because I lived in Mexico for 18 years it was unavoidably impossible not to learn how Mexicans thought of death. Unlike other cultures they do not seek escape from thoughts of death.

Both my mother and grandmother are buried in Mexico. I buried my father in Buenos Aires in 1966 but I did not pay the so-called perpetual tomb rate. Seven years later his remains were unburied and scattered. Rosemary’s ashes were scattered by our eldest daughter in her Lillooet Garden. For me all that is problematic. I remember going with Rosemary to London’s Westminster Abby and stomping my foot over the tile that read H.G.Wells and loudly saying, “How are you H.G.?” It is comforting to know that Rosemary would be somewhere in a spot.

Both of us did not believe we would ever see each other again. There was a sadness we shared in that. I even wrote a blog “Who Will Go First?” where I indicated that should I be the first one Rosemary would not be able to open cans and bottles.

There is a statistic that is with me every day. She died 6 years ago. I am 84, where will I be when I am 90? I am a firm believes in statistics.

What keeps me going, all kinds of daily pills suggested by my wellness expert daughter Hilary, good doctors (cardiologist, ophthalmologist, urologist and rheumatologist) and my daily bicycle ride is that because I live with a dear 16 yer-old female cat, Niña I have to be around until she dies. What will happen if she goes first is something I cannot seem to plan for.

When Rosemary died, our family and I were waiting downstairs in the living room for the funeral people to come to take her away. I told myself that because I was a photographer I had to take the picture. I went upstairs and there was my Rosemary dead on the bed. On her chest was Niña sleeping. I will never show the photograph to anybody but my memory of it is a bond I have with Niña when she cuddles with me, sits on a chair next to mine in my oficina and follows me like chiclet’s.

In social media people write, “Happy birthday Gregory Peck, you died 60 years ago.” I cannot understand that nor do I understand R.I.P. (originally Requiescat in Pace) as how can one rest in that afterlife if there isn’t one? Would active people want to rest once dead?

I spend long minutes trying to feel not feeling, not seeing, not hearing, not tasting, not talking and other human activities. I believe it is impossible and Epicurus would simply say, “Alex, don’t worry about it. Nothing will help.”

Perhaps, philosophically “nothing will help” is a revelation.