I do not remember what day it was, but my uncle sent me his card.
had returned to his home, the yellow one at that ramshackle hamlet, a cluster of houses forgotten by God. There were the usual, old friends around that table improvised playing card games, too wrapped in the warm light of sunset . And he turns around, looks at me, smiles at me and says "I'm fine . He's gone
tortured by the disease. In those days I was in another hospital in another city, close to my mother, her sister. She had scraps of memory, blackouts and a continuous tube that came out of his head and saw him in the eyes of the dying lady in front of her: " that has that ugly yellow face, it looks like his uncle! . (Out loud and went on a procession of relatives who were going to give the grandmother a final farewell!)
At Easter I went back to his uncle's house.
was raining, which did not help: only one of many houses mounds of stones and space warped by time, neglect and death.
I cling to that card, ephemeral, but at least there is the sun.
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