Miguel Ángel J. Márquez Ruiz

Miguel Ángel J. Márquez Ruiz left his porch light on for everyone, and somehow we all felt invited. From the moment he greeted you at the door with that grin that promised stories and strong coffee, you knew time would soften around him. Born with Mexico City humming in his blood, he carried home like a song, stitching days together with laughter, teasing, and a gentleness that made even hurried moments feel worth lingering over. He loved birthdays the way others love holidays, and he remembered your favorite plate, your mother’s name, the way your voice cracked when you were nervous. To love him was to feel seen, steadied, and nudged toward joy. As a veterinarian at UNAM, he turned classrooms into living rooms where questions bloomed and nerves settled. For more than fifty years he listened to animals the way others listen to symphonies—in clues, silences, and sudden bright notes. In clinical pathology, virology, immunology, and avian epidemiology, he moved with patience and precision, yet what always shined was his heart. He would kneel in a pen or a clinic aisle just to be at eye level, whispering reassurances that steadied creatures and students alike. Teaching was never a performance for him; it was love made practical, a daily choice to leave doors open so talent could walk in and grow wings. At home, his passions were a warm chorus: early markets, handwritten recipes, garden tomatoes ripening like small miracles, and Sunday afternoons when the whole family squeezed into the kitchen arguing over music and mangoes. He adored teasing his grandchildren with tales of stubborn roosters and brave kittens, eyes sparkling as he stitched their pride back together after falls. He loved his wife with a constancy that felt like shelter, and his children learned from him that loyalty is quiet and loud at once. Miguel Ángel taught us that a life well-lived is a net held under others. His kindness ripples still—in students who dare to care, in animals who found their advocate, and in families who learned to gather closely. We will miss his voice, but we carry it, warm and sure, like a lantern we can relight whenever we choose.