I saw you clearly for the first time when I was about sixteen.
I had bought an acoustic guitar and I learned to strum a bit '. I still remember that day, the day you were in a sense, born.
I was sitting on the couch with a bad holiday homes for rent in a beach resort in too many miles from the sea, because I and your grandmother could not afford more than that. I started writing a song: G minor, the eldest, a sequence for my daring levels.
I want my daughter has beautiful eyes and reflexes of glaciers in the hair ...
Be ', it was all true. Maybe it was a great song, but it was for you. The most beautiful letter that a man could ever write. Or the second best, I hope so. Then I forgot, too busy to look for a mother. It took me eighteen years to find it, but the song worked in and resisted everything. Each time, the humming to myself, or I could listen to someone. I did not forget that you had a chance to be born.
those eyes I want to clarify the mystery and tell them to truly love, that's true ...
True love. Explodes every time I suspend disbelief, as if facing a perfect film, like a blessed book that teaches you things you already know. You'll love those who love you the same way and you'll be happy anyway, explorer inspired feelings of ill-assorted. You'll cry and cry, you'll enter rooms make it right every wrong and your mistake.
And I want those eyes get wet in the rain, river water, with tears of joy. And I want his image reflected in a pond, does not tremble as now that I'm taking a bath ... I was thinking
checkered life of mill white, but there was a success.
You were born in July 2000, I witnessed the birth. The doctor, after we rinsed them briefly, but has placed you in my arms. I had contested as a kite, too light to belong to mankind, ready to fly away at the first breath of wind. Mi hai piantato gli occhi in faccia, quegli occhi strepitosi. E tutto è cambiato per sempre, dentro me.
Sei bellissima, più di qualunque donna io abbia mai visto e osato sognare.
Voglio che mi dica quando è innamorata, anche se il suo amore sarà la mia vecchiaia…
Ecco fatto. Il solito uomo medio che fa un figlio per sopravviversi e proiettarsi oltre. No. Voglio sapere tutto, di te, senza chiedere niente. Voglio intuire i processi che articoli sotto quella fronte spaziosa, voglio spiare il film che gli occhi proiettano all’indietro, sullo schermo teso della tua immaginazione.
Hai avuto pochi capelli, per il primo anno e mezzo. Testa di mela rotonda e perfetta, lineamenti dolcissimi, large green eyes. But little hair, just like your father. You started talking early, rimavi two years, scribbling three. Your first pee diaper without you made it on my lap while swinging in a garden of another house to rent, this time close to the sea. You went to school, came home from school, you cried for the school, smile at the end of the school. And your father has a memory too large to do the comparison with his experience, which occurred in the same school, which has only changed names: Giuseppe Verdi, first, Gianni Rodari now. A nice change of name, if you think about it.
phones I want, if a bit late 'in the evening. But I want the late evening is not nearly ever, because I have to kiss her, before going to sleep. Why should I kiss her and then sleep ...
Yes it stops there. Like all stories. With one that goes to sleep and another who keeps watch over her sleep. With a who's getting late, maybe in the car at night. And the other one that counts the hours, waiting for that message to close the eyes in turn, in love forever sentinel of a love that can not help but let go. Because these are the love that makes life worth living. These are the loves that are worth crying. The ones that make us grow up without ever really grow. Those secrets that we hide the people who would not understand. Know that your father has loved much in life. And he was loved, also good. And now, in this February night, he feels strongly and clearly that you are not his. But he is yours. I am yours. Forever.
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