In the beginning was the word, and the word was the beginning
all I know of him was the word—without the word I would never have known him, because I’ve never met my grandfather Luigi.
He died of tuberculosis long before I was born.
All I know of him are words, words spoken by my mother and father.
My mother never loved him, her father, my grandfather—he was cattivo, she said.
They lived in Settefrati, a podere near le Mura, a bunch of houses in the comune of Montaione.
My mother was a little stubborn bull, she never changed her mind when she decided to do something.
I do not know why—one day her father was furious with her, he in a sudden rage hit her on the head with a sickle and cut her scalp deeply.
It was a new beginning, a different life from that day on.
She no longer trusted life—that blow distanced her from the world she had lived in before.
She withdrew from the world.
A magician I met many years later, who came from South Korea, said—your mother as a little kid underwent a big shock that is the cause of all her illnesses she’s now suffering, do you know what it was?
For many years my mother has been my angel, my protection, my center…
She even used to come to me after her death, until the pandemic.
As the pandemic finished as it started, my mother disappeared, she stopped visiting me,
I felt her distant, disinterested—she withdrew from me—I felt she hates me.
Why, mother? Why do you hate me?
My father used to say that Luigi, my grandfather, was a good man, despite being a fascist.
My mother was the problem—she was mulish, she was a thorn in his side.
Luigi was a good man, I feel he was a good man, I pray for him.
He is in my blood, in my bones, in my flesh.
He is another living being I keep alive. I keep his word alive.
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