Dear Pope Francis, hello.

remember me?

Dear Pope Francis, hello.

We met a while back, roughly 20 years ago. You wet my head in a big church where my parents and loved ones attended. I don’t remember it. It seemed like I didn’t like it at the time neither. Even before reaching two digits I avidly rejected your knowledge, that big book with pictures and lessons. It was all so abstract to me. I was the youngest — safe to say my tenacity overpowered family tradition. Matias and Camila both got to know you a little better. I didn’t.

You’ve popped into my head more recently. This past year especially. It was late 2024 when I begrudgingly walked into to your morning service on a Sunday with my mother. It was early. Misty. The plan was to visit you and then grab breakfast around the corner. A croissant and coffee from the Boulangerie hugging Hôtel Ambassador. It was a Spanish service. At the time I didn’t think much of it, I later came to find out that without this factor, I probably wouldn’t be speaking to you right now. My mother spoke. Ava left us a year prior, and although mami doesn’t visit you so often your home gave her the space to mourn out loud, to strangers. And to me. Maybe strangers isn’t the right word. Are friends of mutual friends, strangers when all under one roof? I’d like to believe not. I hadn’t felt her sadness until that moment. It was all a bit messy when it happened. My priorities belonged elsewhere. I made sure to do the right things. Be a good son, grand-son. It didn’t feel right to cry over a phone call when I was across the world in Montreal, neither did it eight months later when we all walked to the pier by Nyon port to send grandma on her final journey. In the wind you flew, with the sea you rested. This time it felt right.

When walking into your spacious living room — cluttered with those long benches you love — a coating of responsibility melted away from my half-dormant body. I sat, shoulder to shoulder with my mother, with suspicion and curiosity. Both often go hand in hand. The pastor asked if it was anyones first time in this Church. Mother gave me a shrug. I stood. He gave me a warm look and all eyes turned to me. “Welcome Bruno” he said. I felt as if everybody in that room looked at me with the most, genuine eyes. A North-American server could never. I was by far the youngest in the room and it felt like I was leading by example. It was an important day for mami and she chose me, and you, to be beside her. Teamwork.

It was barely 10am when we left church. I was starving.

The effect you had on me that morning, was real, but put on standby for a version of me I was excited to explore a little later in my life. I wasn’t quite there yet. Not all relationships must be rushed — I told myself.

Fast forward, you are now absent but more present than ever.

hola.

I read about your recent disappearance on my phone this morning. I felt something, but not much. Not compared to when MacMiller died or when I heard the news that an acquaintance of mine, not a friend, took his own life four months ago. That was sudden, a shock met with sadness and distress. This news — perhaps selfishly — came at a good time. The day after Easter Sunday. Saturday I showed my parents and family friends one of your many homes — over the phone, explaining them our brief but frequent encounters. Monday you died. Today marks the beginning of something new. A new exploration of us. I’m starting to explore questions I haven’t had the time to think about much recently. What do you mean to me? Who are you? Am I bad friend? Do you have the patience for me? Do I have the patience for you?

Don’t kid yourself. I won’t be able to answer such questions tonight. But as someone once said, “Shit, I’m human and I guess it’s a good start for me to ask these questions” - The Hill We Must Climb by Brvno.

I’ve seen so much. All of us have. Everywhere I look, I see something. Someone jogging, someone smiling, someone thinking. A billboard, a poster, a pamphlet. A car, a Tesla. I’ve been seeing a lot of those recently — eugh. Everywhere I look, I see something. You however. You must be the only thing I see so clearly when my eyes are closed. The only thing I feel so deeply that has no face or personality. You aren’t living or dead. This, I’ve learnt, brings me tremendous comfort. As someone that spends an enormous amount of time on both the existential and the real, it is calming to take myself out of the game I’ve learn to play so well and pass the controller to someone else for a change. Everything you become good at, will inevitably come at the expense of something else. I hope I never become too good at life.

Just a month back I saw the movie Conclave. I may have already spoken about it but two of the big themes I latched onto was ambition and indecision. I don’t know much about the your profession or your devoted followers, but to me, you represent everything but the truth and pop-up most when my perceived purpose blinds me from what’s in front of me. You warn me of ambition and encourage indecision. This is why I struggle to follow any of the many paths your people have encouraged me to take and why I chose to keep a safe distance between us. I keep my head down and put one foot in front of the other. I have my reasons. I’m taking it slow. Curious, but suspicious.

I’ve seen many photos and videos of you, Pope. Your name gets thrown here and there during asados with my uncles and aunts. Perhaps they like you for your compassion, your gentle way of being. Perhaps it’s just because you are Argentinian. I’ve always liked you because you seemed kind, genuine. It’s rare to see someone with so much power not become at least a little bit of an asshole. Maybe you never saw it as power. Maybe you saw it as your duty. The ultimate sacrifice. Maybe you were the best there ever was at the game of life.

Gracias Jorge Mario Bergoglio. Que dios te cuide.