little over a year ago I was at Paris for a consultation at a cancer clinic at the highest level with the documentation of my brother suffering from lung cancer. Mine was a journey of hope, "the illusion if you will, but I was ready to do anything to try to give more life to my brother.
A few months ago is gone, does not have it done. And I wanted to write him a letter. Of course our blog is perhaps not the most suitable place to house it .. But these days ... I thought our ceremony in the Great Shrine of the Mother in Turin, and in my mind to bounce off one by one the names of all the other brothers of the 150th who are no longer with us. To them, through the memory of my brother, I wish to address the thought of an unchanged affection.
Pierfranco
It grows in many ways, we become great by putting a lot of things. Too many.
Money, souvenirs, comics and posters, pocket watches, paintings and lamps, old PCs and Lacoste and photos do not look washed out once. It grows in the bank setting aside the memory of memories knowing that change will not become rich and you will not be returned with interest, in fact, written down you will come back, like a rolling stone, like a boulder.
We grow sometimes with other things, putting aside the tears retained, not without pain and unspoken words. Like now, I'm going to take what's left of you, my brother, Gianni. Faedda.
In our language "Faedda" means "speak" imperative that belongs to no one but to everyone.
Faedda.
Speak, that in your last your bed at home, in the silence of a dreadful season indefinite no voice and no peace, only what I wanted to tell and listen to you was, talking, my brother, and tell me again about the things that know.
John, for God's sake! Language
quiet night of a thousand that have spread like a balm on the end of the day, the hopes and anger, pain, anger and the cage that contained both of us and could not stop us, but love us, because we were full of love. John, now that I can not tell you in no way quell'Abacada (peace, calm) that only you, you heard it first unfolding in our homes, because you knew to be many things, not a definite, but many, you can choose the final and also the principle. But even knowing how to rewrite them, because our travel faster than truth lies and could not, like beasts, hang their necks to hook a question and wait, bloodless, the end. It would be given the death in other ways, but certainly not in silence.
Gianni, the memories are here, next to the remote control gate, on a bread and a carasau vermentino waiting for us, here in my house or at home, in your old Lancia Dedra amaranth, Olivetti PC in your house (which made us fight savagely) using paper coated with adhesive on your stubborn patience.
I'm here. Let's go back, please, when your daughters were little girls, when you smiled proud of them. Remember when Frank was about to finish college and Lucilla already showed signs of his talent important? When your wife smile teasing her husband fake surly? And look from your balcony Sassari, our small city of adoption, slamming his head on the shell of a snail from which it can not get out.
Can you hear me brother, can you? Outside, next to the enchantment of these days I put pocket in your illness, pain and anger, I go out on the streets as his only weapon and wield your gentleness, your courage and your boundless generosity and others, other things that you can not say, because we come from a land of few words and then now I rig as a warrior of the most deadly of weapons, the silence.
Back to Forest, we go back to the beginning.
I say, come now at night, come day or come together as lovers reconciled to take what I put aside, something that no one finds my house is not ready.
light a cigarette, or rather two of them breathing the poison and I feel good, better than before, and now, death is a safe that no one can open. Better
well, better. You have the key and then stick it in the lock of the night, the first without you.
And now, somewhere in my life fast and confusing for you these tears I left my brother, were yours for a long time but I could not let them get off on the first face, such as mirrors in which to reflect your pain. Now I'm free to fall Gianni, free to devote himself to the sun this time, and become steam and merge with your spirit somewhere.
If in this time I was not always at the door asking you to enter your thoughts, if I have not always shared with you the bread of your pain and anguish of days drunk, do not think that I forgot about you at any time , my brother, do not think I was away. I was somewhere else to beat on my drums to drive away and tell her sister's death: back later. It is not the time, is not the time.
I am here, next to your absence, to push, even one step further evil, with the oars of our trip. I am here with my pockets full of wonderful days we have built and maintained here, to remember every moment and every step, to review the poems of the day, to remember the taste of wine and feasts, and words of hope, Here, next to what your life has changed.
here, brother, meat that had the same blood from the beginning and has always been able to merge into one to look for those places where people do not know the sea and planted the oar of our going on a ground solid enough to not slide on the sand.
Our sea of \u200b\u200bthe color of the wine that we drank and toasted with which God
Outside the heat is a blanket friend, you must always look for the mica to find the fresh ice or snow ol'ombra, mica or something you need to pray someone to be cool or warm.
I have always been enough, then as now, to know that you were there, and you have always been, at times when life is measured with complicated tools, a safe place. There was no need, at other times, a thermometer outside ourselves to see if it was hot or cold, you just put one on our feet, our skin and our hearts in a row.
Inside, in the corners that you know, in those places that are just our own, we had what we tried, what we find in this and on other days.
Like now, I prepare my desk and expect you to come back and take a seat, your, what is yours and nobody else will.
Now, as then, as always.
So Faedda, speaks in these shadows, break even for a moment the silence, there are already too many lights out tonight, turn on your own, that are mine and ours.
You can hear the music? You can hear it? It tolls for thee. Just for you. Dance.
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