" Dad, let all and away we go, Dad, and let everything go away "They're like wearing a warm sweater these words of a gentle song Vecchioni, and every time that I encounter in my thoughts axle emotion wet, a melancholy that floats on face before dropping slightly to the heart where it stops for long, leaving traces in the eye. Not because I feel the desire to have run away. Quite the contrary. Since escaping from here would be the escape of the deserter and not the prisoner, or even less than the hero, I know that I can not even think about it. And 'I feel strongly this deprivation, this remoteness, this absence.
I feel I have lost too many times the opportunity to tighten, to embrace, as I do now with my son, and like me then, he now escapes because it is not by men, not you, not: the tragic illusion that dissolves only when it is too late or when you're down you ' other part of that embrace that you can not tighten.
I would like to embrace now. There is no more. It burns. And yes I have been privileged to hold his hand to my father as he died, sitting in that chair that I still have, like if you look closely, I would not ever sit on, could shorten a distance and did not already exist, since we superimpose the dimension of the spirit. Yet I miss her. More than my mother? Not know, maybe yes, if it is never possible to give a measure of a cut, a wound that has completely cut off the roots. I am now the root, the rhizome that goes down deep into this. Nothing around me, no more. Only offspring. And this burden, to feel the weight of this responsibility upon every day when I stand on the threshold of the evening, to think, to tell me words that I always find it more difficult and inspiration, and in this you are burning and thinning thick.
And I feel that I have shared this feeling with him, told me the day of the funeral of his mother, sitting at the table while we waited for it all made early-odd word to begin a ceremony makes a sacred purpose, and yet not, because actually it is a new beginning. He stood with head bowed, shuffled slowly coffee that his sister had offered, and you could see who was suffering with dignity. Jumped up his face, looked at me and told me he was not so many words, that he had never confided in me, he listened, he knew how to listen, he knew how to love me, he knew how to discern between the avalanche My words of those to be retained, estranedole not a treasure, but a pile of garbage, he jumped up his face and said, "Now I'm here at the base of the tree. There's nobody behind me. " Then he was silent. It was not sad. Do not despair. If anything pierced. Inspired respect. Exuded wealth. And I inherited this gift and I wonder from where to draw the line that goes down into the folds of time to find a first, among my ancestors, I've got this light and we have thus given an inheritance to all the descendants to me (and I hope to deserve the privilege of being able to pass on to my children).
rummaging through his papers I found this old photo: I do not belong to him because that is in it tells of an even earlier to his. Who knows maybe belongs to my grandfather or his grandfather: conservation because it overlaps with the words of that song: a desire to leave to return, not to abandon, but to rediscover. Put in a suitcase to take away, but to select, prune and cut what you do not need to keep him, stuck like a sweat suit. I can imagine this ancestor, to contemplate the suitcase on the bed to accumulate cards and garments, and sat down to look out the window, before deciding what to take with him. Why not running away, if anything arrives. But it is a treasure that is examining, is a suitcase containing her life. Who knows maybe it's just stepped off a boat, or has moved. Or you are looking at. What is send a clear reliability, the ability to look within and to assess ironic mercy with the same look that should apply to everyone, but we end up only keep for themselves, and, moreover, softened by complacency.
And what I think my great-grandfather accumulates as the images that we carry, here and suck the life when you least expect it and if you're always ready to lay down your thoughts to turn hearts and minds. I felt such a sense of fatherhood long after I became a father, not because I had no conscience, but because I had not penetrated the wood. One evening in Jerusalem that is also a line of Vecchioni-down through the Jewish quarter, I saw a child throw himself out of his home run to meet a man crying, "Abba, abba" and then hug him. And there all melted, it has clotted, and then he stretched out in a new light: everything took effect and depth. And I thought about my father.
childhood you still think of broken images, but vivid sharp edges, imprecise. I remember a game that we were promising in the spring of Milan: we sat on the balcony of the kitchen, looked at the road that could be glimpsed between the buildings, and I bet you guess from which direction it was coming the next car. Today, that same road, if I could go to see it from the balcony, penetrating the walls of the houses in the meantime have obscured vision, would see blocked by a queue with no end in any direction at any time of day.
And I'm here now, in silence, watching the sunset, mundane situation as a writer of the second row, and yet so everyday to take if the peels remove the patina of familiarity that makes it sloppy and dull, a value on . See and hear the sounds of the city calm and mild, like the surf and, before returning to my home, I turn out the song that I sang in my head still Vecchioni
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