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    Posted April 17, 2014 by
    This iReport is part of an assignment:
    In Memoriam

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    Gabo made face the blannk page


    CNN PRODUCER NOTE     AWriter2B was born in Bogota, Colombia, and now lives in Florida. "He would publish something right when I needed it," he said of author Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who died April 17.
    - rachel8, CNN iReport producer

    I was twelev years old when I was livng in Bogota, the youngest of ten and the only one left at home with my mother, when one cold December night some one started knoking the front door with a tremendous sense of urgency. It was my brother's partner at the office. He wanted to tell my mother that my brother Mario had had an accident. But my mother new better, she new her son Mario was dead. The man was asking for any of my older siblings but they were all gone. My mother said: All I have left is my youngest, Mariano but he is sleeping. I was not, I was shaking of fear and cold. Hernan my brother's partner came into my room and asked me if I had a suit, to which I responded yes. He said put it on and come with me. He asked how old are you? I said twelve. He responded that is good, you are already a man and the man in the Robayo family don't cry. Your brother Mario is dead. You are going to be the first member of the familty to see him dead and you are going to be with me all nigh.
    As I came out of the house I saw three cars, two were blue unmarked police cars and one was a yello cab. Hernan told the men in trench coats smoking cigarretes, this is his brother, he is coming with us. They went to their respective vehicles and Hernan and I sat in the taxi cab, whose driver recognised me from the days I used to go hunting with my brother Mario.
    Driving from Bogota to the little town, 40 kilometers away, where my brother used to live, I concentrated on the street lights of the last part of the city, marking how they past rythmically on top of the car and the back window.
    This was in my guts from age twelve to 21 when my mother died and I was reading Hundred Years of Solitud. Suddenly Gabo's writing gave the passport to write myself. Obvilusly not with his talent and that is impossible but with the inspiration, the truth and the passion that validates the feelings. Gabo introduced me to Kafka and Folkner. I am crying because I have lost my invisible but very real mentor, my intelectual father figure.
    For a child that grew up in a familily where hunger and violence were the only sure things of every day life, to be able to find literature as an escape, to dream that is possible that your brain is a castle and you are the king. To dream and write the dreams, to be able to take a piece of reality with a piece aof abstract and put it together as a cohesive story is magical and Gabo gave us that. I know he gave it to me.
    I have been writing a book for 17 yaers, Gabo took the same amount of time to write on his novels and that makes feel better. I have not finished it because is not good and I want it to be good. I have not shown it to anybody, becasue he was told by one of his early mentors not to show early to any one.
    I have the feeling that I have to present my work to Gabo and it will not be of the calliber and I go back to work.
    To my mentor, my inspiration, my literary compass, continuing to think that I have to present my work to you, Gabito I will miss you knowing that you have left us a lot of material to read and reflect. Thank you for the 87 years you gave us. As for me, like you would said:
    "Estoy Jodido"
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