Mourning.

It's been more than half century, but yet it is always just yesterday.

At first, was the glorious golden age; then, the nothing.

In Palestine, they would have called this as "al-Nakba": the catastrophe, the disaster.

A kind of definitive ethnic cleansing from the territory of the happiness and of the dignity.

An expulsion from terrestrial paradise for sins that you never committed.

After, it is only allowed a voyeuristic peek from outside.

* * *

After 55 years from the death of my sacred Father, my Mother also died.

Mother,

there is not a day in which, instinctively, I do not have the urge to call you on the phone several times, as we used to do.

We had a relationship that was also brusque and very conflictual and yet telepathically symbiotic.

After 63 years of uninterrupted cohabitation, I no longer have a direction.

I am left with the desire to die as soon as possible (a desire that, aware of my emotional and intellectual diversity, has always accompanied me since I was little more than a newborn) and, even as an agnostic, the desire to meet all of us to tell each other how much we loved each other.