The Little Book of the Dead

The Little Book of the Dead - Ida

I sit here in front of the sea—blue water, light wind, hot is the sun, I sit among the cacti on a bench overlooking the sea along the small promenade that runs along the coves of the Castiglioncello sea.
Am I happy? Maybe. I am alone. And in my loneliness I remember you, Ida.
You saw the sea for the first time—you were 60—only one magic word it was until that day.
You, Ida, you believed that rain brings frogs from one place to another.
What a strange creature you have been? You, who at the age of 5 were riding a horse bareback through the forests near Volterra? You, who, when my grandfather saw you for the first time at eighteen, made him think—she has large, firm breasts like marble that I could sit on?
What a strange creature you have been in this world, you?
This sea has forgotten you, yet the wind whispers you—you dead whisper—you alive I keep.

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