RACCONTO
-ma lui può tornare?….- Esclamò il bambino afraid.
-no, can not return.
-safe?
-no, can not return - he repeated, reassuring.
The child was getting an automatic gesture, every time he had to think fast: passing the palm of his hand on her hair blonde.
Her mother was watching him.
was as if the child perceives that his mother was protecting him. She did not know what, had not the slightest idea, but was confident it could not have better protection. That fragile e forte di un corpo dal cuore malato.
-Ascoltiamo il suono?
Il bimbo sorrideva piano piano, era l’unica cosa a cui non riusciva a resistere: il suono della mamma…
Il suono di lei lo accompagnava da sempre, anche nei giorni in cui la pioggia cadeva lungo la finestra della camera nella quale lei lo difendeva.
Sin da quando era nato, quel suono lo proteggeva piano, dolcemente…ma con decisione.
-mamma, cosa è stato?
Non worry, the answer. But now was not convincing. She would have wanted to avoid the tension, but it was impossible, the child looked at her and began to tremble.
-do not worry, love ...
-Mom, you said you would never come ...
-yes, I know ...
His face was strongly felt. His sound was more acute. The sound of Mom was now accelerated.
-I recommend you do not worry, that everything passes ...
That was the worst moment ...
Perhaps it was on that occasion he did come to terms with the rain. He did not know what he really was. That someone is amused to scratch the window of the bedroom? Who then? What?
-mama, want to get some sleep'?...
The mother smiled, amazed at the capacity for empathy of the child.
-yes, maybe it's better, I sleep a little ...
He wanted to help his mother.
and begins from the first Fair enough.
He walked to the window.
Rain ... perhaps it was the first time I saw her really ...
Almost no one sees the rain well, only they can reveal little alarmed.
-then you know that my mother has to clean everything?
His hand rested on the window. He wanted to make contact with the rain, telling her to stop, the mother could not now dry. But between him and the rain was the glass.
How odd, he thought, I can see it, I can distinguish every movement on the window, yet I can not touch it. He felt what it meant to look, see, distinguish, know, but it can not intervene ...
between him and the rain there was a glass between his mother and him, there was a heart ...
-then you know that my mother has to clean everything? - Repeated to rain on the glass ...
He looked at her intently.
Then he turned to his mother. Feet were motionless on the bed, he could see the creation of the classical lifting covered.
The sound of her mother continued to be perceived.
He walked.
clock with the simple way. It was a bit 'selfish, but for children this is a little' love for his mother.
-mother, but now he is?
-no, it will no longer ...
When he said these words, the woman's cough clouded the sound of the sound and he believed that he could not ever feel ...
Per un attimo, si sentì perso…per il tempo di una tosse.
-mamma!...
La chiamò per sincerarsi che lei fosse ancora lì…
Lei sorrise…
-cosa ti dico sempre? – gli chiese.
Lui la guardò. Era fermo, e i suoi piedi erano vicino al suo letto. Le scarpe una sopra l’altra, in una posizione che solo i bambini possono assumere, rimanendo allo stesso tempo seri e giocosi: una delle due scarpe si aggiungeva all’altra ed era leaning sideways to it, describing an angle of about 45 degrees, taking the helm at the inside of the sole.
Anyone faced with a dying woman would put his shoes are beautiful, straight, flat on the floor. With nothing more than that posture. The child however managed to be terribly sad at the same time eager to smile with her ...
were the shoes to make this, their posture at the foot of the bed of his mother.
The night was coming ...
Out of a street lamp had ceased to shed some light.
while another was allowed to continue to survive.
In that house there were two lights: a woman who was about to go off, and a child were allowed to survive ...
-because you are sure he will not ...?
-can not get ...
The baby is nibbling the lips, while savoring the chance to believe.
- not convinced? - Asked yet.
His shoes were still swinging each other. Find out if the case had to be serious.
The shoe is lowered until it touches the ground and made noise. His mother felt. And she liked knowing that her son was still playing ...
The boy ran his hand through his hair ...
-then, are you convinced? - His mother asked again, this time even more solicitous to know the outcome of the application.
The boy brought his hands to his chest, crossing them.
seemed ponder the words properly. Before you say ...
-only if you tell me one thing ...
Her mother smiled.
-okay, I'm listening ...
-where does the rain? ...
She looked at him intently.
-We do our usual game? - His mother said.
The agreement was taken, as every time. Even when everything was sad. Even then their love, what fuels quell'indissolubile intesa, si fece strada tramite il gioco…
Le scarpe del bambino vestivano per bene quell’abito di complicità…
-vado a prendere il foglio, mamma?
Il viso del piccolo s’illuminò. Un sorriso straordinario, una volontà forte riuscì a far indietreggiare la morte per qualche minuto…
-mamma, l’ho preso…
Lei lo aspettava, sempre immobile.
Nel letto. Nel momento dell’addio.
She was playing, and she knew he would ask her what she was waiting impatiently to say ... but to do so, the mother had to wait, and pretend to have forgotten ...
The eyes of the little ones looked at the mother.
eyes of her mother watched the little ones.
the baby's eyes, the eyes of her mother.
The eyes of the mother, the baby's eyes.
-mother, you tell me the words ...
So that he waited to say. The game needs its rituals.
-well, then ...
And here she coughed again ...
He tried again the feeling of the absence of the sound of her mother. The cough had covered, yet.
He looked completely blocked, had the fear inside.
Then she stopped coughing. The sound began to be felt.
She smiled ...
Lui anche, ma l’emozione forte, fece spalancargli le porte della coscienza e degli anni…
-prendi un foglio bianco… - disse lei, era la frase di risposta, sempre uguale, tanto attesa.
-perché bianco, mamma? – era la rituale risposta.
-perché devo poter immaginare…
Le costò molto muovere le mani, mettersi seduta sul letto, guardarlo negli occhi...
-ti serve una matita, mamma?
Come era bello suo figlio. E come era nuova quella frase ogni volta che lo diceva.
Lui gliela porgeva.
Lei la prese.
-da dove viene la pioggia?...
Le ripeté la domanda del gioco.
Sua madre utilizzò la matita sul foglio bianco…
Lui, come da regola, non guardò.
La mamma chiuse il foglio piegandolo in quattro e glielo porse…
The eyes of the little ones looked at the mother.
eyes of her mother watched the little ones.
the baby's eyes, the eyes of her mother.
The eyes of the mother, the baby's eyes.
-mother? ... - Said the child feebly
She had almost no strength.
-my love, come ...
The small, suddenly become a little man, came up with lo stupore di sua mamma, disse…
-mi hai detto che non sarebbe più arrivato…
Disse risentito.
-e infatti non arriverà…
Il piccolo si passò una mano tra i capelli. Guardò il lampione che dalla finestra si vedeva spento, guardò fortemente la pioggia…
-a differenza di come facciamo sempre, questo lo dovrai leggere solo quando non mi crederai più…
-ma io ti crederò sempre, mamma…
-ti fidi di quello che ti ho detto? – quasi lo interruppe, come se stesse dicendo l’ultima cosa che potesse dire…
Il bimbo, si ripassò la mano tra i capelli biondi…
-si…
E la madre gli porse il foglietto piegato.
Il piccolo lo prese.
Sua mamma lo baciò sulla fronte…
Gli occhi del piccolo guardavano quelli della mamma.
eyes of her mother watched the little ones.
the baby's eyes, the eyes of her mother.
The eyes of the mother, the baby's eyes.
And the sound of her mother.
And the eyes of her mother.
And the sound, now more slowly, the mother.
And the smile of the mother.
And the sound, even slower, the mother
E poi la pioggia…
E il suono della valvola del cuore della mamma che smetteva di fare il suo classico “tic-tic”, il ritmo della sua vita…
Il suono del cuore della mamma, spariva…
Nella pioggia…
Il bimbo pensò: - è arrivato…
L’addio…
E poi, infine, e ancora, la pioggia…
Diego Fanelli (Fine Parte 2)
unpojokerunpobatman.blogspot.com by Diego Fanelli is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribuzione-Non commerciale-Condividi allo stesso modo 3.0 Unported License .
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