That night all of a sudden it started raining, and we with it.
some time now, I had decided which were the two topics that I treated respectively in the last two posts, those who had promised to write before we close this blog. I would have liked that the order was reverse state, but fate decided otherwise.
therefore I dedicate my post to my beloved father, Bartholomew, failure, after a year of illness and tribulations, and forty one o'clock in the morning of August 5, 2010. After a turbulent morning, early afternoon of 4 had finally fallen asleep in the cool of my fan, and his face had found the same expression of renewed youth and serenity that he kept in his death in his bed and the presence of his dear, as he wanted.
Our last heartbreaking conversation was held about a week before, when he asked me how I named my new daughter, and told me that he would have liked to stay with us a few more years. I can only imagine what it must have been painful for him the idea of \u200b\u200bparting from his beloved grandchildren, still so young. The last book my father read was Memorabilia of Xenophon. The last CD you listened to contained the Symphony No. 59, 49 and 58 by Franz Joseph Haydn. The last fruit tree he planted an apple tree.
Not knowing where to begin tackling a subject that would require a more spacious feel to dig through the feelings that now crowd into me, and slowly settle the ashes of the chaos caused by the initial trauma. The first to emerge is of course the sense of emptiness, the reality of the crater that now, for the first time in thirty-two, was created in my life. I look with apprehension and fear the future emasculated the presence of my father. I feel lost in front of the interruption of his teachings. And I almost feel a sense of revulsion, against what is left, unused objects, of things without an owner. Every object gives off a phosphorescent reminiscences and memories, and asks me what do we do now. I wonder how much time must pass before such a glow to cool, and everything can be seen and used for what it is and represents.
It 's harder than it looks, and this difficulty is compounded by the fact that my father was a man driven by a thousand interests, countless bizarre "Balin" that rained from year to year: his intellectual curiosity ranged from classical symphonic music to literature, philosophy, religion, photography, astronomy, from agriculture to mycology, good food to wine tasting, from Travel with hints of entomology prematurely interrupted. And still climbing, cross country skiing, cycling, tennis, jogging, skating and a rudimentary mainly country walks with her beloved St. Bernard Moloch, which grew to pull then proceed to the final goal about a year ago. Not to mention his bizarre experiments in the fields of food and handicrafts, areas in which it was absolutely denied and which produced disastrous fruit easily forgotten. Finally, the collections of knives, watches, onion, family trees and the area's history, obsessed with cataloging and archiving, a former city administrator and who knows what else I'm forgetting now. All cultivated passions sometimes lasting endurance, sometimes ephemeral superficiality, but they have and continue to release spores and myriad tangible traces in which now I and my family we face.
The lack not only its many merits of rustic simplicity and yet very brilliant man, a medical professional and competent, with a thousand of intellectual resources (qualities that have earned him respect and affection by many colleagues and neighbors) about the lack equally, and perhaps more, as his many faults, those that occur mostly in the private and domestic sphere. These defects, which sometimes made him appear more like a Homer Simpson in the flesh, or, sometimes, a kind of Piedmontese Alberto Sordi, gave him an aura of fragile humanity that was for me a source of immense love, tenderness and sympathy.
These days I wondered what the thing I miss most about him. I think it's his tremendous sense of humor, because, apart from anything else, my father was one of the funniest people I knew. I loved its calculated exaggerations about their own talents ("The Hammer of God" called himself when he played tennis, "The Voice" When André De sang accompanied by my sister to the plan, when he was cycling, jokingly challenged us to feel the hardness of his calf and we was said that a young man playing football with the ball had taken a side with a power that shook the door still decades away).
I'll hold all the pros and cons that he gave me a genetically or culturally transmitted. Because it's part of him that still lives in me and that, along with everything he has had time to teach in thirty-two years of my life, I will try to give my children.
In disgrace, I feel lucky to have had the opportunity to enjoy my father for several months after the traumatic news of a year ago, and it could do with the information they need to not pass up any opportunities for important and happy moments. We spent hours of beautiful and instructive in the garden, garden, orchard. I recall with pleasure the hard spending the morning in almost comical attempt to extract a huge stone from the ground to make room for a plant.
Hello Dad, I wanted so much, and thank you for everything you gave us. You were so nice on his deathbed, which was even more difficult to leave.
I greet you with a song that, years ago, you made me listen to the living room, telling me So sad music that maybe they should prohibit them.
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