Little Book of the Dead - Gano

Gano.
Do I remember something of him?
He is more or less what is said—a flatus vocis in my memories. A name.
I must think. I must make an effort to remember something.

I remember an old man with a big pastrano (greatcoat) on him. A worn-out straw hat.
Big jaws. That is why he was probably nicknamed Gano. From ganascia (jaw).
A dark shadow. I recall him as a vague shadow. A hazy, dark shadow.
He swore a lot, I remember. Unutterable curses against God, the Madonna, Jesus…
Probably he smoked a sigaro Toscano (Tuscan cigar). A noxious, stinking sigaro Toscano.
I was a kid. A little kid. He likely never spoke to me. He was a crazed person. Yes, he had to be something like that. A crazed, obsessed person.
When he passed by, I clung to my mother. He scared me.
Nevertheless, I still remember him. Why?

He is not asking me for help, like many others. He’s not asking for a prayer, like many others.
Yet he is still present within me. I cannot forget him. He is something that doesn’t want to be forgotten.
I cannot decide if he is a benevolent or malicious presence in my blood, in my bones, in my skin. He is with me. I cannot forget him. He will live after his death as long as I live. I give him life. I keep him in this world. The border is still open for him, has never closed the gate for him.

I keep it open.

But why?