This morning I walked among the graves of the little cemetery of my country, actually I do not know how long I did not, arm in arm with my mother I went through the years of my life in the faces of those photos of pottery. Each of them grabbed a smile and a tear, which mixed together, do not leave a bad taste. As a child I often went to that place that looked like a much stronger, the battlements of stone on the entrance door gave him that air old masking no more than a hundred years and numerous renovations, but you know, everything is in the imagination of a child what he wants to be and the courage was worth even more if we became an abandoned castle. Now the white gravel crunched under my shoes worn out and to my right and I look to my left who had appeared on movie from my youth, now petrified in marble sculptures. The face of my mother slowly plowed of nostalgia, and his voice reminded me of long forgotten anecdotes: When I saw Mario stagger drunk down the street from the tavern that led to his house when the landlord brought him home on uploading old wheelbarrow because it kept shifting from one foot, the only food full of things to discover in a country without news, the one run by George, or the voice of Bruno, who always and forever for me was the sound of passion of Christ on Good Friday in a church full of faith, or the young Mery, torn from the first loneliness and heroin, the beard of the very smiling Eugene. Then the teleprompter Fire has always been the one and only to repair bicycles, but an army of child care: o never, ever stop to gaze at the huge hump on his back parked. Now I was walking and laughing, weeping, arm in arm with my mother for who knows how long I was not in a place that sees only tears and sadness I felt our laughter resound within the walls that once seemed very high, I did not feel at all guilty, even happy, as the film of my first thirty years had taken a turn, almost all those who have turned parts of a sudden turn to live with me at other times, full of gratitude, tap the jacket of George dusty, crumpled to the trousers of Bruno and then back together to turn what remains of my life.
I went through a whole country under his arm to my mother, out of them, the noise of tractors, the smell of vintage, inside me, in a September ageless, like a general before his army have paid tribute to each of them for services rendered to my question, I gave each of them a smile, that little cemetery I said thank you. Now, after thirty years, I finally understood the meaning of a small cemetery that looks like a abandoned fort.
First to greet the heroes of my youth, I saw my grandmother, that smile of pottery, all its strength, all the faith of simplicity, ignorance, his voice telling me: "Mr Maria, n'do site is very ow?" I replied, smiling : "grandmother away, too far" . Arm to my mother and thanked God or whoever for him, because in a past that does not exist, I found a smile for the present. A Storyteller
soon.
