Mother, oh mother. I may not forget you. Every time I pass the hospice where you're dead, assails me a thrill that can stir feelings of guilt and liberation, as if these two dimensions could not be separated even now that you are no longer here and I imagine that in a peace without end, the peace that you have always pursued, sweeping away everything and everyone in your quest resentful and restless.
Even me.
And this anxiety, your anxiety, you left me as a gift, as a legacy uncomfortable, but wise. Of those that keep you awake the soul, in a fight without end. Why peace is the daughter of two opposites: the stupid and bloody peace, like a dry desert plain under a sky washed out and planed, without wind or a war without end, fought against ourselves, without respite and without prisoners no nights to rest, no heaven to behold, full of wind, the cold, sharp, down from the north and it stops if not at the juncture between soul and flesh, and perhaps not even there, the war that leaves you breathless, yet as happy as the hero who gives his life for what he believes.
say that those who are amputee limb by, say a leg for years yet still feel as if it were still there, hanging on to them. Here, with you I feel the same thing. You're still here, clinging to me like you were in life. Your love angry and violent I was suffocating: it loads all the answers that I did not have in life, not because she did not tell you the dates, but because you were not ever happy. You were so tense, but calm: claim to have an open account with life, and you did pay for all those who tried to love you, as if love were to twist in retaliation for revenge.
's strange, even if you die alone -Do you take me to exhaustion and that I will not forgive me I know, have you left to die alone, in a coma in agreement, but no one that you held my hand, not even me, and this disgusts me, for pity and pride : I can not say that I was there, that sound humiliation, see in the end you loved me even dying in the night to let the bitterness sweet sound and uproots my vices in one-bedroom that he had finally obtained, as yet another whim, as if he was there all the good of the universe, even if your death has quelled my resentment, and opened the door to a love that I knew I had for you, but not of this magnitude has not subsided dark memories nor has cloaked them of that sweetness that seems to lack a gift to each memory. Quite the contrary. Made them more vivid, lucid, sharp, even if they were deprived of that poison that, when you were alive, I clouded her vision and his heart choked me pushing it down into a sludge of hatred and dependence in which it seemed sinking in quicksand as malignant.
And so the first image I see is not the smile with which I welcome you as a child, not yet as old as tasteless and pulled, or the embrace with which I thank you for being there. It is on the look of love that still shines in an old black and white photos. You are in the background, bias, bent, keep those bright eyes, as I've ever seen on me that a little further, but focus in the foreground, taking its first wobbly steps and you will see that, with the bib of colored cloth that I remember very well, for one of those strange games of memory that is fun to pull out of the mist details that tell you what you just can not remember. Stand there and watch me and the joy seems to paint this picture with the white jagged edges, and I do not see you, but I know you're there, you're ready to catch me. I trust you. We got all our lives there. Even Dad, far away in the darkness of the corridor, he has gone out first and you waited with the same delicacy hidden with which you left in the foreground, in broad daylight, to always choose pastel colors, edges, minute spots of shade. I have always believed that you had given another slap to your whim, had the courage, the lives of all would be different. I assume the best.
No. It is not that face, that light that I remember when I close my eyes and think of you.
But the embers of your cigarette, trying to fight the darkness in which you closed. The flashing red light when you brought me to sleep with you in the afternoon, as a child, two on my bed, head to toe, because I do not bother sleeping the rest. And I see the light on and off alternately noise that you were to shake the ashes in the ashtray embossed copper who now has pride of place as a shrine, among the objects that I have kept. And the same light in the dark kitchen, always you kept the shutters down, while severe judge me-I always find myself always judged guilty for being able to give your love, something that made you happy because it lets you believe you are magnanimous, and in silence, smoking, touching your hair, twisting his mouth and eyes to the ground by bending, suspending time, so as to prolong my suffering and your satisfaction.
Yet loved me so much. And you wanted to keep for yourself. Just for you. And I loved you, I love you even now. How could I not love someone gave me life. And, tragically, to keep it happy, off to himself that of two brothers that I never had. So how to turn off the cigarette, with anger and speed. I am a survivor, mom. A son unicizzato. A child bathed in blood of brothers and elevated to divinity, with the task of keeping the family together because everything is done for him. Everything. As a black hole that attracts all things to himself, torn from its existence, ground into a love that soaks complacent. Why the love for me, I soon realized, was actually a pretext, a mirror, you had so much affection that I need to embrace that resembled imprisoned in More power to the protection of a kidnapper of a mother.
Mom, this acid cola I still heart that I speak to you now, standing here in front of what remains of you here in our midst, and I can not discern the good from the pain, to draw a line between your dry egoism and mine, between your suffering is what causes a nearly perfect science. Why suffer
you have suffered, and often because of other, although in recent years, the memories were often watered down the imagination, from what I feared, wanted, hoped. And the violence was confused with what you wanted to be able to avenge receipt and boast. I remember the last days. August, on the terrace of the burnt nursing home. Mumbled words, talking out of turn, criticized, asked me, claimed. Nothing else. Yet I understand that they were the last hours and hangs like a branch that will save you from the abyss. But I let go and instead I fall, I was suspended and you fall into the chasm you.
And mom, but I can not remove the lining of hate across our life together-we knew how much you hurt, my mother-now I can feel the love grow new, purified, strengthened that comes from a new neighborhood, separated only by the thin veil of the sky.
You can also affect the other high chiefs:
You can also affect the other high chiefs:
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| An endless wire |
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| passion and feeling |
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| Two tracks in the sand |
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