Domani "sono i Morti", Già, ma i morti si sa che non son tutti uguali, certamente ognuno ha i propri, e poi ci sono quelli diciamo "comuni", ai quali si rende in qualche modo omaggio o gli si dedica un ricordo, maybe a bad memory that still makes them the alleged existed. But that's not all like that.
Maybe it's been a month or so by the untimely death of Dominic, probably due to the accidents of a life bent on itself. Fate common to many who came from the country, whatever it is, they failed to adapt to a hostile environment, where the traditional link between family, friends and neighbors is replaced by opportunism and self-interest, with which it is unable to cope.
So for years, against the wall outside or sitting lonely nell'ostaia of Gabri Domenico has poisoned his liver with alcohol and his blood with the underpaid labor, black and hard, until it wears out.
Someone has also helped to survive in the worst, others toglievan footprint by offering a glass of black, but most of the ill have endured while shouting at the table of cards. He growled softly at most, incomprehensible things, in Calabria, with the sad face and red crushed between the cap and the collar of his jacket. Until late in the evening, when he fell at home and smelly balcollante "his", where the water never got hot and where the mercy of a landlord, the host.
But Dominic smiled often, go to know why, and certainly always waved. Blue eyes with his stay there, in the square, from morning to evening, they sent me suggested that he might expect to see in vain before his eyes ... the image of a dirt clearing between the houses of stone, where the narrow streets of the country meet the sudden light ... where un'emporio, and some bench un'ostaia create the scenario of an extended time and serene, an appropriate time to be divided depending on needs and human needs, where relationships between things and people is punctuated by bells and from break and sunset, by the rooster and the sound of dishes in the afternoon ...
Quante vite segnate dalla solitudine di una migrazione coatta, dalla miseria umana della città e della produttività... quanti Domenico sono passati come fantasmi nei quartieri come il nostro, a cui in fondo si somigliano, come loro sono stati disgregati ed isolati, antropologicamente destrutturati nella loro tipicità, nel loro "carattere"...
E così come un pallone sgonfio scalciato sotto una macchina, come una cartaccia volante nella strada, è passato Domenico, e se ne è andato. Molte persone pronte a far ponti d'oro ad altri morti che magari posson dimostrar riconoscenza anche postuma, neanche se ne son accorte o peggio han commentato con un "buon per lui..."
Tutte, tutte le volte che mi son trovato senza sigarette Domenico me ne ha sempre offerto una, accompagnata da un sorriso triste.
Grazie Domenico, Grazie ancor a.
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