I lost my father on February 19 this year. was Monday, I think.
Saturday there was the costume party with friends of SV Italy, Sunday evening and I accompanied Basic Caindmun to dine at Victoria Station.
I just left the room vibrates the phone: a series of missed calls from home and Miciazza.
calls from home at 11.30 am on Sunday?
and dials of my Miciazza a call comes in: the mother has called her - unable to get in touch with me. Dad the emergency room, breathing problems.
and my blood pressure rises.
excuse me a moment with the guests, and as I look at the Lilo imagine having to rocket from Catania to call the mobile phone of the mother.
mom, quiet, I said do not worry, Dad has a bit of trouble, took him to hospital for checks and controls of the case but the situation seems calm.
anxiety goes down.
for you and not call one of my many (I'm lucky, I know) acquired brothers, Alfie, who lives down and put it in early warning. I ask him to leave the mobile phone access, that night, because I might need it.
Alfio goes further: despite being "broken" because in the morning he fell during a race MBK, goes to the hospital to see that pulls air. is my brother, and all "thank you" of this world do not make me feel less indebted to him.
greeted the guests go home, I call my mother to study the situation, for me to explain: it seems that Dad had a strange day for some "hard" on him, and Sunday night, the worried mother has decided to satisfy the health conditions.
in the hospital are all the controls of the ritual, they find it a little messed up but overall seems to be well, is as good a man of 82 years.
I feel with my brother Marcello, who lives in Milan: it is stoned out of sleep, I will not scare him but ask him to stay alert.
Okay, I put in "stand by" Alfie, I take my magic pills and I lie down.
happens at 6:20.
the phone rings. when I wake up and get out of bed to answer it, I already know. is something that I have lived for decades in my paranoid mind, in a sense are used (preparation).
but it's like the rumble of an earthquake, even if you recognize it from afar, do not you ever get used to (being Etna, I speak from personal experience).
voice trembles, his mother cries desperate.
the exact words are: "Alessandro, I do not know how to tell if they're going, if they are going, they are doing the heart massage, but there's nothing to do ..." .
is a train that derraglia.
and the earthquake.
is a disaster unlike any other.
is the noise it makes when it becomes the life history.
and active but I am strangely calm, who knows the rivers of adrenaline in the blood.
ask her not to worry, with my usual grace ordering them - perhaps, in reality, I'm ordering.
hangs up, without even finishing the last sentence, collapsed.
the Miciazza who woke up asking me what happens, I tell him without saying anything.
name is Alfio, I ask him to go by her mother, he is operating more of me, hangs up without too many frills, "I'm going, I'll call you."
name is Marcello. is still dazed, seems to bear the brunt. consult the internet to see how to move flight: the planes dropped for logistical once landed in Catania you decide for your car.
are seven ten.
coffee after the first of many cigarette on the terrace to make the point to myself what just happened. and there is little to baste fairy tales, there is no time or space for considerations of any kind, because it is too soon and that my command and control center can not devote energy to other matters that are awake and feel well prepared for the journey.
you should know that whenever I go home and Marco set in Sicily by car, the journey is a comprehensive analysis of the situations - I at Bologna, he in Milan, Giarre parents - are living.
we jokingly call "cathartic journey" and not even know if it is a catharsis or is it something else.
I fill up Lilo, I write two lines about the Forum - an attempt to vent? hope a tear that is not? - Phone uncles in Milan and then I'll get my brother in
station in Bologna.
collapsed, and while I'm on the weight of the other operational clarity envy him because he cries, unable to cry. I shit.
perhaps because they are confused, because I try to weigh rationally the event, but how can you rationally assess the fact that your father's history, has it been? and then remain nearly in a loop with myself, and I focus on what to do.
Lilo to push the throttle input from the A1 motorway and exit at Salerno, without too many metaphors I speak of 190 fixed in the third lane slowing down (sometimes, not always)
only in the presence of cameras.
if I were to give a rational explanation for this high speed, well, not there. do not need to run, if not to get to handle the situation - which, moreover, is already operating by itself.
need to run instead, emotionally, to distract me from everything that is not driving. and does me good. I do not think of anything but driving.
as we go along the peninsula with faso me home, I feel Alfie - he is doing exactly what you expect to face a Friend, and is an indescribable feeling to find such a confirmation.
also feel my mother, who is very slowly taking breath.
with Marcello talk, we talk so much. sometimes he blurts out in a sob, I will smile as brothers, I tell him to "allow all" if it's to do so.
arrive at eleven and something we have spent almost exactly eleven hours (less the twelve from the roadmap): if the Salerno - Reggio Calabria vomiting was not a goat would be arrived at least two hours before, maybe even less (1100km to 190kmh =?).
enters spray, Dad resting in the living room, Marcellus cries.
I sigh, sigh deeply, yet I did not realize that inside that container wood is the body of my father, as they say: I do not ability.
embrace the mother, is stunned, persissima.
Alfio is there, hug him, tell him "Thank You" I miss him and replies, takes for granted his presence there, that I have to thank for?
the rest of the story is a lake of coffee, a lawn of cigarettes, a few words, the persistent disbelief in front of the corpse even smile to see him there, looking comfortable with his eternal wry smile, as if he were still alive .
actually do a great difficulty to understand that he is dead.
the funeral. a final farewell.
is all a "last" when they close the coffin, at home, is the last time I see the face of my father.
when the coffin out of the door, is the last time his body to the threshold.
when the coffin is closed in the niche, then it's the last time we see the container that hosts it.
is "an" end. is the end of youth, is the end of a story begun thirty-six years ago.
Dad no more, now.
and already returned home if they feel the absence, the family is "incomplete."
... how many lives, he lived.
many stories.
tuttosommato was a great experience, an adventure epic day: thanks, of course, his taste for "romance". taste which must come in time by dint of suffering, if it must be tragic, tragicomic life that is at least!
dad.
a big pain in the ass, indeed, a Mr Rompigolioni, not a pirletti any!
all what he did (no matter how good or bad) ever did wearing the clothes of the Divine.
cheering spectators and has had quite a few: even though there was some criticism, even strong. but summing up the result is still in surplus.
now, every so often, I just see something that concerns him to begin to feel the emptiness inside.
the memory takes me back to the last time I saw it, was the first in Bologna and Milan, then during the Christmas holidays.
cock, it seems almost yesterday. seems almost yesterday that he was here, and instead is' yesterday and now there is and there will be more.
dad.
who had insisted more than ever to take home for her birthday (March 19, gone exactly one month before).
remember that I was surprised by his request: in theory the weekend of 19 I had already planned a commitment with the boys of the Forum, and then the past was always just a phone call cards! Marcello
I wanted to check with your request:
"Look, Dad called, he says if we go down for his birthday. In fact I'd already committed, but what do you think? "
" Do as you like. I go down, I think you should come too, "
because you know that Dad has spiritually prepared for his departure by at least twenty-five. in recent times, every time it was good to come up with topics such as inheritance or something.
argument that follows, but without giving too much weight: it is a life that spoke, "Wolf Wolf!".
the wolf at the end, I can say to surprise came: and all the spiritual preparation is not served with a cock.
returned to Bologna I stopped taking the tablets, so, I mean, if I hit a straight like my "depression" and / or anxiety if they can safely go to hell.
every time I take something for sleep, but in a spot.
not know yet how I am, I am discovering little by little every day.
soprano I think that, except for a couple of hiccups (repressed, also) I have not really cried.
soprano I think that I think little, not even a month after the disaster, what has happened and it changed my life without appeal.
I often wonder if I'm insensitive, or just my control center is keeping the situation within reason for my mental health - honestly I thought I'd sketched, such as must be said: and instead here I am like a rock And I do not know if in this case is a compliment.
sorry, I light up a straw and I read everything.
I also took two moments, the back does not like the atmosphere in Bologna.
is all for tonight, I'm not going to add more.
"the writing is uncertain, the prose sometimes incorrect" but that's okay.
goodnight.
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