Who besides me saw Aldo come back from the factory on a summer morning, his face covered with sweat and dust?
Who will remember my father’s youth after I am gone?
What about the smell of bleach on my mother’s hands?
Is there anyone else who will remember the “tartaruga” in the kindergarten?
And the Minestrone the children would eat at lunchtime between play ground and the little nap?
What about Walter who wanted to marry me as soon as possible?
Age four: As soon as possible is an eternity, but eternity is tomorrow.
And later, when the factory closed down, Aldo stopped working. He kept a garden in the neighborhood where he would raise rabbits.
Walter and I would observe them in their cages, but as soon as they were in our plates we would eat them without a single thought for their cuteness as little rabbits.
This poor woman in her hospital bed. She is missing her right arm and leg because of a rare disease. She is crying and wants to die, who else sees her besides me?
And the taste of polenta on a rainy day in a rainy country, when Livia would invite me to share their meal. How proud Aldo was of his little family. Who knows how happy I was picking up the mushrooms with my fork and sitting between Stefano and Walter?
A summer next to the sea, I lost my tooth and I am throwing it in the Ocean. On a picture I am smiling, a childish, innocent and toothless smile. Who will know why I was smiling?
One day someone told me a secret, I never told anyone, but where do secrets go when they are never told?
The day I blushed after a teenager whispered something in my ear. He does not remember what he whispered.
In London an old Lady telling me how in Germany they stuck a needle in her ear and injected her with chemical products. She survived.
Grandmother, her stories from older times, her sayings and her laugh.
The endless hours spend on learning: Ich bin, du bist, ihr seit, wir sind… German language that I hated. Now I am glad that I know it.
In the little line between the date of birth and the date of death there lies identity.
Books read, movies seen, people met, places been. This is what creates us.
There is no identity without memory.
Laisser un commentaire
(Retourner au fil des pages)
Ca faisait longtemps, très longtemps, que je n’avais pleuré en lisant un texte.
Commentaire déposé par DR — 12/5/2005 @ 10:10
En le relisant, je me dis qu’une seule chose est “dommage” :
la dernière phrase. Elle est de trop.
Commentaire déposé par DR — 14/5/2005 @ 4:11