Dearest Gabo,
It’s your birth anniversary and I’m grateful that you were born. I’m overjoyed that you lived, experienced what you experienced, loved the way you loved, made your mistakes, and took them all and wrote your books. Your books people say are rooted in magic. I think they are rooted in harsh reality, which you sugar-coated for us. So, thank you for that as well. There won’t be more books from you. I’m aware. It’s been a while now. But I am happy that I get to reread all that you wrote. No one else could write like you Gabo. No one else can. They try. But you are you, and you know that. One hundred years of solitude made me dream in technicolor, Márquezda and you should know that. Of love and other demons brought me closer to my ex-boyfriend and he left me when your autobiography was released. It’s been a long time since then. I remember not liking love in the time of cholera. Sorry for that. I still don’t. But I read it. Your stories have a life of their own, and you know that. I write to you because I love you. I write to you to let you know that you made a fifteen year-old boy dream when he was lost and confused. You made me see my Macondo. You made me live my reality and taught me how to face it. I remember reading Leaf Storm at 15 and being fascinated by it. I wanted to write you a letter. I always did. Never thought it would be when you were in a Macondo of your own. I hope the siestas are long. I hope you are still writing. I hope you are dreaming for all of us. I hope you’re happy. I also want to gift you something if it means something. I will read a book of yours every month. Reread most of them. Till I’m done. And perhaps start all over again. Gabo, you made a generation hopeful of love. You made them see magic. You made them escape. You made them live. Thank you. A thousand times.
Love,
A reader.
Of Books and Reading 