You will be Mia
25 April, 2017
This story is taken from a memory of C., one of the first visitors to the Museum. We have 'romanticised' the story a little, but we can assure you that the content has not been distorted. If you too have an Alfisti story to tell, please send it to firstname.lastname@example.org.
YOU WILL BE MINE
I had known her all my life. She had come into our lives when, still too young, I could not understand that it would be for life. I suffered the world and tried to do what I was told: "Get in, hurry up, the journey is long". I would take my backpack with my most cherished toys and spend hours watching the world go by through the back window, like a film I had seen before and yet always different. The radio croaked music and news: an analogue imperfection that I regret today.
My father spent a lot of time with her, maybe too much. I used to be jealous when I saw him looking out of the window and looking after his great love. He caressed her without taking his eyes off her. It was probably then, admired by the beauty and driven by jealousy, that the words "you will be mine" came to me. Every now and then I would go down to the square, knowing that she was alone, and I would start talking to her. She would remain silent, but I knew she was listening. When I got tired of her reticence, I would turn my back on her and go off with someone else, but in the rear-view mirror I could see a gleam in her eyes. I knew she would miss me.
The years of my youth led me towards the path of concreteness. I seized opportunities, I invented perfection where others had already raised their hands, after all, life is also about recognising opportunities, letting yourself be carried away, asking for a lift for your dreams.
I thought so, but it hurt. It hurt to think of my father's increasingly discontented, resigned face. I tried, God knows how hard I tried. How many times I whispered "Come on, Dad...", but the words were stifled by his pride and my anger. It was a scene I had seen a thousand times. She turned her back and all I had to do was watch him through the window with her.
"Take care of her..."
I will never forget the day my son was born. I felt ready, I wanted to be a father. I felt all the emotions that the heart can feel and I was exhausted. Happy, invincible, exhausted. His shadow gradually became more concrete. As the door opened I focused on him. He, with her, in the middle of the courtyard. He was caressing her, but his gaze was searching for me. His face was tense, but he was smiling. He had been crying. I had never seen him cry.
I approached him. He didn't say anything for a while. We looked at each other: same eyes in eyes. She was there, motionless, beautiful. She lifted her arm and held out a worn piece of cloth to me. "From today she will be yours, take care of her, so that one day she can be your son's, my grandson's." I did not understand. I was lost and looked at him as a son looks at a father, now that I myself had become one. He took my hand, placed the keys in my palm and hugged me tightly. Giulia was now mine. My father was now mine.