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.

MOM AND DAD STORY

Yesterday Virginia asked me: “Dad, but if you and your mother break up, who is it who has two daughters and who one?” I was in the kitchen slicing onions, the question took me by surprise. “In what sense, Virginia?” I said. “We are three sisters”, she said, “you can’t divide the third sister in half!” I felt like laughing. I was going to answer her: “Don’t worry, love, Mom and I will never break up”, but I didn’t want to lie to her, because I know that every relationship is made up every day, and the biggest wrong you can do to yourself, and to others, it is just that to believe you invincible. “Virginia”, I said, “if by chance my mother and I parted ways one day we would see you all three, a little bit me and a little mom, don’t worry.” “But in Mrs. Doubtfire the dad saw only the children Saturday, ”he said. “Virginia, sometimes when two parents break up things can happen,” I said. “Maybe they didn’t break up well, but arguing. But Mom and I have always agreed that, even if we break up, you will always come first. You have I got it? Always.” He stared at me in silence. “Dad,” he said suddenly. “But can love end?” I thought for a moment before replying. “Love doesn’t end,” I said, “it’s people who change.” “People?” He said. “Virginia,” I said, “adults grow up too, you know? You are now a big girl, seven years ago you were a little girl. It works a little like that for moms and dads too. When I met my mother I was a different person, she was too. The important thing, when two people love each other, is to be able to change together or respect each other’s changes. Parents, with their children, do just that thing there, but sometimes they can’t. It is for this reason that love for children is the only one that never ends. “But you,” she said, “when you met Mom, how did you know it was Mom?” I didn’t understand, “I said. “How did you know you wanted to love her?” He said. “Ah, that,” I said. “I figured it out after about ten minutes. “And from what?” He said. “When we first met, she pulled her hair up behind her neck, over her head, and pulled up a bun without even a rubber band, just knotting it,” I said. “So what?” He said. “And then I realized that she desperately needed a rubber band,” I said. “And I her hair.” “And you had it, the rubber band?” He said. “No,” I said, “but when Mom found out, she already loved me.” “Dad!” She said, “but then you cheated her.” “Maybe a little bit,” I said, “but the point is, Mom was the first one who ever made me want to look for a rubber band, you know what I mean?” He looked at me for a few seconds. “Here daddy,” she told me, pulling off the elastic that was holding up her hair. “So you and mom don’t break up.” She laughed, luckily I was slicing the onions.

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