di Giuseppe Carro
It was not his habit to be afraid. She has always been a great woman, one who suffers in silence and walks with her head held high, a woman with a high sense of decorum. I remember that when her father died, while the sisters threw themselves into tears at the foot of the coffin, she with a smile on her face said "hello dad". She, with an intelligence so marked as to keep up with any "scholar" on duty, she, with her "elegance of small things", she, who makes the simple act of working bread a sort of arcane mystery, as fascinating as the unknown, she, who reading her little evening novels still manages to make the imagination fly. She, who is not used to being afraid ...
Now he is afraid, afraid of this invisible evil, fear of something he cannot control, fear of a devastated everyday life, fear of not being able to give caresses and kisses anymore.
He is afraid, because this perverse enemy threatens to hurt all those whose hearts no longer beat as they once did, whose skin is no longer smooth, whose hair has now lost color, and whose shiny eyes have the taste of a time gone, of past joys and a great experience.
I am not worried about the disease itself, the virus has no eyes, does not feel, does not make distinctions, it is disheartening instead to perceive the moral degradation of a society willing to throw its parents and grandparents into the abyss of pain and terror in order to feel safe. Whenever you say "it doesn't matter, he was old and sick" at the news of a new death, remember that that person could be your mother, your father, your grandmother, remember that the elderly are not the weak part of society, and that, indeed , they represent its pillar, remember that they safeguard a sort of "correspondence of amorous senses" with the past.
In the end, the biggest lesson my grandmother gave me is that butterflies go farther than caterpillars.
From the “Quarantine Diary” section