I thought I had started pretty well the day, walk earlier than usual, or almost disguised the signs on the face of the tensions of the day before, the home to the eight already in place, the children ready and calm, punctual to school without even a bargain on the jeans to wear or play to bear. We came out without too many smiles, and Roberto Dario walked forward busy talking about something that I felt tight at times. They exchanged information as important as inaccurate on the opening wing of the peregrine falcon, and when their theories seemed to lose consistency friend Matthew quoted authoritative in the field of animals. Two steps behind them watching them thinking about something else but at the same time I felt the pleasure of wearing them right there, so talkative petulant and fussy and already eight in the morning. A summer sun still softens our steps. We entered the car and warm and wet before you even turn the key in the ignition I put the box with the favorite song of Darius.
We sang this song called Ligabue Souvenir and that speaks more or less intensity of certain memories and how some objects are thrown back powerfully to the memory stick inside things back and backward in time. I had so often asked the meaning of each word, forcing me to stop the recorder every 30 seconds to talk and explain and then go back and check if their train of thought came back, especially if they return, if in fact this concept of souvenir could be acceptable for a child of 4 or 6 years so much decreased in This was launched in the future or just a stretch too old and difficult to understand. But I had asked for an explanation and I had tried to give it. [...]
bulb is part of my little book of short stories, D to live , published by zerozerosud in 2002. Then republished in the anthology F remember things vulgar (BooksBrothers, 2009).
