STORY OF A DEAF CHILD

I called it that, with that mixture of lack of delicacy and naivety typical of age. In reality he was also mute, the child in question. And maybe he wasn't even that child, in the sense that he was a couple of years older than me. I was, however, a child. And there was nothing nicer for me than spending time with my dad. I followed him to the bar in the evening, at work, when he went to his customers (he had his own company), when he stopped for coffee with friends, when he made deliveries with the van. In short, everywhere, our relationship was special and I a little maliciously enjoyed that exclusive relationship that cut off my sister and my mother, my father was only mine, period. And he gladly took me with him wherever he went. Even at the home of this deaf child. I spent time with him playing as best I could, I didn't like his company so much because I didn't know how to relate to someone who had that kind of disability. As I remember, he also found me likable, sometimes he got angry when I couldn't understand what he wanted and I proceeded by trial and error, making mistakes until finally I got the right option. I dare say we got along well even though we weren't really friends. I remember in a few frames the way to get to him, which we did for just one summer. I remember that the countryside around was yellow and warm on those sunny afternoons. What became of him, then? How did the "deaf child" experience that period? Do you still remember me, that playmate who occasionally pissed him off because he didn't understand what he tried in vain to say? Maybe. But the question that I have been asking myself for years to tell the truth is another: why? Why did we go to his house? Why have I only ever seen the mother of that child and never the father? Why did my daddy take me with him and then leave me there to play with someone who he called my friend but who in effect was not? Why didn't we ever go there with mom? They weren't family friends, why did we end up there from time to time? I don't know, I can't know, my father has been dead for a quarter of a century and of that summer I am left with only this memory and the echo of all those because they are destined to be orphaned of an answer. (Maybe) unwitting witness of something I didn't understand or knew, sometimes I think about it, sometimes with rancor and sometimes with disdain, I tell myself that no one is perfect, not even my father was. But how much I wish he were still in the world to ask him something ... Two things I hate in life: waiting and not knowing.

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