My dad died just over a year ago.
Anyone who knows me knows that this is not a pain, is a chasm that has opened in my life.
If now he were here, I would say "Dad, I have a blog." He would rise from the sofa, slowly, would look for glasses in the room, then I would say his voice husky, in Bergamo: "show me" and would peek on this laptop, the one that got him. Look, I listened to him, I probably would take around. And then, at the first opportunity, he would say proudly, "My daughter writes a blog." Like I'm the only one able to do it all over the world, the only one that deserves to be read, the only one.
spoken too little about the death of what leaves and what it drags. He does not talk much because it hurts, but writing is different ...
The fact is that people do not disappear into the void, do not go dragging everything but memories and leave traces of their presence. The glasses in the case resting in the drawer, the piece of a lock that was abandoned in the sheltered bay of the car door, the story of what was your father in the eyes of a friend.
One of the most unpleasant experiences of the past year has been answering the phone at my mom: "mom I say, it will be for me." was not for me, it was a rumor that my dad was looking for. I did not think to put together a sentence could be so difficult: you have to find the words to say that no, he is not at home because died. You must explain the urgency and the need to speak with him are useless things in our lives are nothing compared to death.
other hand, the voice becomes embarrassed, he paints his condolences, asked when ... And you come back to a cold afternoon in December: the sun, the faces, thoughts, your brother's hand. The item was sorry, apologized, even though there is nothing to apologize for. Sometimes my mom tells me, the voices on the other side of the phone are incredulous, sometimes hang up without saying anything more , sometimes feel guilty for being inadvertently entered a house where someone missing. And the absence is heavy in a house, so that objects bear the marks of our life, and when there are still more talk to us. The walls speak to us, if we listen.
I reminded of a poem I had read in high school and had given me her heart then. Montale was, he told of a phone call asking a friend of his wife, he had to explain the wonder and pain on the other side of the phone. I would have liked to put it in the post, but I could not find it.
do not know why, but I find myself that one day, the day he will make me find.
Giuppy
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