“What exactly do you do for a living, dad?”. It’s the adverb that puts you in trouble, because you know that you have to give an unequivocal answer. And because writing is never restricted to one particular field. It’s something liquid, mixed with perceptions. Writing fluctuates between different dimensions, each of which is always ready to intersect with the other.
One of these is being a parent, which is “job” as well, and the most harmonious one.
And when the journalist and the father meet, just a few hours before March 19, all the stories they experienced together throughout their land connect with each other.
Stories that involve eggs, chasing balls, caressing glasses and hay bales. Even the amazing discovery of an abandoned place.
And you remember the moment when the snap was overwhelmed by a feeling of awe stemming from being able to grasp a new word, or from a sudden and unsettling question that was forming.
You remember the taste of the sand of your sea, “which belongs to everyone, dad”.
You cannot and do not want to forget a cry under a fresco, not because of the indifference in front of a little masterpiece, but because hunger takes precedence.
In this steaming pot of memories there are the steps to the Cave of the Sibyl, the meandering colors in the rain, the silence taken by the hand on the stands of a Roman theater, the time spent hiding in the bright green waves, the consumed boards of a stage, the kite blown eastward by the wind.
And finally some rest, that makes your heart explode.
So best wishes, dear dads. And always celebrate the privilege of having this “job.” No need to browse a calendar.