It’s raining

You walk.

You do not even know how much time you have walked now.
You walk and you think.
A rivulet of blood glides over your temple.
You know where they are taking you, but you are only able to keep moving forward.
Your feet sink into the wet soil.
It’s raining.

18 years old.
So incredibly young. Strong arms and worn-out boots. Ideals and dreams, at this point, you know, without future

17 sheep.
This is all your family has, in a farmstead lost in the mountains. You can breath good air, there, in that sea of green and blue.

16 times.
Your friends used to say to you that you could have become a poet. But your relatives do not believe in art, and, actually, neither Mussolini does.

15 years old.
Even younger you were, when war felt on your life like a black curtain, leaving you only broken hopes and growing ideas.
 
14 constellations.
You can recognize them in the winter sky. There are more, but you have no memory. But you are fascinated by the stars: they are so free.
 
13 tolls.
The old house clock often beats them. Maybe, it is a sign that anti-conformism is part of your family.

12 years old.
Younger and younger you were when you first kissed a friend. Who knows where she is, now? She sent to you some postcards from Fossoli. Then, nothing more.

11 shots.
You heard them, one night, from the stable. Not even a scream followed them. No one knows who the victims where. Only a stain of blood remained, in the morning.
 
10 brothers.
Your father loves you all, but you particularly, because you are the older, and you two are so similar. Who knows where she is, now.
 
9 years old.
Even younger you were when you go into fights for the first time. Your father thought you to defend yourself, back then. It has been useful many times.
 
8 lires.
Your wage, the wage of a simple laborer in the weapon factory you worked in. Money was needed at home, especially with that ages-lasting war.

7 kilometers.
The village was that far away from your house. It was a short ride, by bike. Stones on the path and punctures where the funny part.
 
6 years.
Extremely young you went into the woods for the first time. Your mother waited for you to come back: she knows you would. She is probably waiting for you even now. In vain.
 
5 friends.
You grew up with them, cigarettes and adventures. They had always been with you, side by side. Now, two are dead. The other think you are crazy.

 
4 soldiers.
They knocked at your door and messed up the entire house. They were looking for food and wine. There was no respect in their gestures, violence only.
 
3 years old.
Younger and younger you were when you first sister was born. She died just a few days later. Even then, you understood that only the stronger survive. Today, you stand between the weak. Between the ones that will die before morning.
 
2 goodbyes.
One to you girlfriend, beautiful as a mountain flower, and one to your parents, strong as that same flower. You whisper to the wind and leave to it the duty of consigning them.
 
1 word.
It sounds light when you pronounce it. It the word you started fighting for and, now, all that counts.
 
0 years old.
22 December 1925. Late afternoon. In that farmstead lost in the mountains, a cry is heard. It’s you. Your story starts. It’s raining.  

22 december 1943.
Your back touches a  freezing brick wall.
You reached the place that will be your grave.
At your side, you have two companions, soil-stained clothes and tied up wrists.
The three of you know that you did not fight in vain.
The three of you hope that the future will make the values you believe ingrow.
The three of you, silently, say goodbye to life.
Facing you, SS soldiers laugh while pointing guns.
People say that facing death, all of you life passes in front of you.
But you die as a partisan, andoneotherthings occupy your mind.
A word.
Freedom.
Soldiers shoot.
Your worn-out skirt soaks in blood.
It is late afternoon.
It’s raining.
Sometimes, life’s best and worse moments match: this is the paradox of goodbyes.