[ Petits mots, Petites morts ]

Tengo el alma ahogada en versos de amor para ti. Versos que se asoman en cada caricia y en cada café por la mañana. Esos versos me tienen hinchado, como nube de lluvia, como expectativa; y escurridizos como son, se escapan y se precipitan y te empapan. Mis versos se atreven, a veces de a poquito, a veces como tormenta, y se extienden a tocarte cuando las manos me tiemblan o cuando la voz se me quiebra por el estado del clima. A veces, se atreven cuando pausas, cuando tu silencio, como el agua, es tan delicado y tan precioso que pudiera tenerse de adorno en la vitrina; y mis versos, ansiosos y necios, me inundan, y se derraman y rompen, estruendosos, tu precioso silencio, tu mirada y tus versos.

I would love to believe that when I die I will live again, that some thinking, feeling, remembering part of me will continue. But as much as I want to believe that, and despite the ancient and worldwide cultural traditions that assert an afterlife, I know of nothing to suggest that it is more than wishful thinking. I want to grow really old with my wife, Annie, whom I dearly love. I want to see my younger children grow up and to play a role in their character and intellectual development. I want to meet still unconceived grandchildren. There are scientific problems whose outcomes I long to witness—such as the exploration of many of the worlds in our Solar System and the search for life elsewhere. I want to learn how major trends in human history, both hopeful and worrisome, work themselves out: the dangers and promise of our technology, say; the emancipation of women; the growing political, economic, and technological ascendancy of China; interstellar flight. If there were life after