The Little Book of the Dead - Surreal Sundays

When I think of Brunero, it makes me think of how life can suddenly change. And how Brunero’s life seemed unchangeable - forged of stainless steel.

He spoke with a strong, powerful voice, loud enough to be heard everywhere, even fifty meters down the street, reaching my parents’ apartment on the fifth floor, where he would come every other Sunday to visit them.

He filled the air with his voice, and around him was a vibrant, surreal world. Surreal Sundays when his voice rescued me. The sound of his voice was my rescuer on those Sundays of deep desperation. It made me believe that Man is real. That Man has a reason in this world to transcend himself, because he is in control of his life. He - is his life.

But one night, returning home, he tripped and fell - and that small, insignificant accident terminated Brunero’s story in this world. 

He fell into the hands of doctors, who uncovered another hidden problem, one he had perhaps carried all his life and lived well. 

They induced him to follow their path: the noxious path of doctors, a path of pain and ordeal, a cross too heavy for him to bear.

And so he ended in a bed - his shroud. In the scorching heat of summer, bony as a stray dog, naked as a worm, his life expired there. 

And his voice faded away too.

Oh voice! Am I the last bearer of your sound? 

Oh my Sunday’s Saviour, you still abide in me!