Ten days ago I was at a funeral in a church in Via Bobbio and I noticed that the priest had set up a Christmas tree at the side of the altar. I was surprised, but not too much: just the day before, in fact, an acquaintance of mine, fiercely secular, I had confided to prepare the crib at home. Evidently there was an exchange of symbols. The funeral of a friend the other day was sixty years ago, Franco, who had to act of presence: I had helped at a time when the text messages were to come and lovers risked losing contact. So, I had a girl who was standing in the summer campaign and was monitored by un'arcigna aunt gave her my news summary and trivial letters with a false signature and adding female white margins in my written promise of eternal love with the lemon juice. The girl then made visible those sentences with the warmth of an unexpected iron. For the answer we wanted another catch, because the mailbox was in control of my mother, contrarissima to flirt. And here came Franco in action, being already an adult, he could use the brass plate: with patience was the inevitable queue, and I longed to deliver the package. For this I went to thank him, even after sixty years.
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