Wait just one minute here
by Lorenzo Piccoli
It must have been the big mural on the wall, ‘Veneto Indipendente‘; or maybe those notes from out there; or the mountains making their appearance from far away. Whatever it was, I cracked down in tears. The last time it happened was a few months ago, shortly after Thomas left. Back then I started sobbing when I was in my Institute’s canteen: a rather embarrassing scene. At least this time I was on a train and nobody knew me. Or so I hope. The other passengers must have thought I had lost a relative or something. Instead, I was awakening some recent thoughts. Like the image of leaving Florence knowing that when I will be back some people won’t be there any longer. And the image of Jewish Maariv; the lights from the Opera House; the letters of hope and those of despair; the long walk like a group of hobos and the bus-ride we never got. It took some minutes to rebound, until I remembered we always find a way to fill our voids, happily ever after.