Primsy

This was my beautiful cousin Gema. ' Primsy' to me.

We grew up far away from each other. Our cities separated by distance and our families by forgotten bonds. So our relationship was conducted by letters mainly, at least in the first stages.

Her handwriting big and expansive. Each letter fighting for space with the next. Mine small and contained. Each space bigger than the word it proceeded or followed. We were as different as our handwritings.

She was fearless and bold. Honest to the point of brutality. Witty and sharp. Relentless. Her laughter always surprising; raucous and dirty and at least one octave lower than you would expect from such a small packaging.

She was exciting and fun to be around. A complete tart with a penchant for male models, air stewards and the ocasional ski instructor. But if she ever lost her heart, she never showed it.

Only times when I saw her sad was on her birthdays. She hated them. I think it reminded them of how fast time passes and of all the things she hadn't done yet.

As we grew older, we forced our families to come closer and were able to see each other regularly. She even came to live with me in England for a year, turning my world upside down.

Ten years ago to the day I got this phone call. Primsy was in hospital with meningitis. A rare and devastating type. Less than ten hours between the onset of the first symptom and complete organ failure. She never regained consciousness.

I went to see her twice in hospital. When I first found out, and a month later, after I was told they had disconnected her from the machines that were doing the living for her. She was expected to last only a couple of hours.

I arrived thirty six hours later. She had managed to cling to life for that long. Said my goodbyes. She died five minutes after that. I'd like to think that she was waiting for me.

This image is a picture of a picture taken by my friend Antonio Mula a long long time ago.