Do you remember, brother, how we first met? So many years have passed. I think it was a Spring Festival—1979, if I'm right. I was with Elena, or maybe Paola, and then Anna came over with a classmate of hers, someone curious about Fede e Luce.
One second was all it took. A sharp joke from you—a little sting to it—and two kicks at a ball.
Do you remember that pilgrimage in '81, Stè? "Ludres," that's what Fausta called you. The train ride with that armband, the duty roster, forcing you to get off at every station to make sure no one was left behind. The smell of broth the whole way, mixing with guitars playing nearly all night long.
It was the first time we traveled without San Gioacchino. San Anna's new banner—Fausta and Rina had sewn it by hand. We knew we'd see almost everyone again at Marzocca.
Do you remember, Stè, in Padre Danilo's kitchen? Guenda and Francesco smoking. Water balloons full of broth launched from the terrace the next morning, crashing down on whoever arrived late, taking their time. And the mattresses thrown from the balcony? One got caught on a shutter, swinging above Danilo's head as he stepped into the garden. Guenda kept him distracted while we tried to haul it back up.
You, me, and "Maranelli"—that's what we called him, Papalla-style—always together, like brothers. Do you remember those early days at the Chicco? When there was just Fabio and Maria and Guenda and Ann, and so much to build. And moving with the Fede e Luce minibus. We always managed to cover registration and insurance and still had enough left over for summer camp fees.
That impossible run-in at the dress rehearsal for the June 2nd parade? We hadn't seen each other in over a year. My paratroopers were horrified—their commander jumping around like a madman, hugging this tall guy in a black beret. And all those nights at Big Mama, you remember? Beer, music everywhere, me with my pipe and you with your inevitable—damn—cigar.
And then there was that great sorrow of yours. Abandoned by letter, the night before your wedding. Brother, I thank you for wanting me there. Just the two of us at San Demetrio, burning through anger, disappointment, disbelief. Then life pulled us apart. My work, twenty years of weekends gone. Yet every time we saw each other, it was as if we'd parted only hours before.
I thank you, finally, for this other gift you gave me. Those last hours, the two of us together again, when all we had left was memory. So many stories between my thoughts and your soul on that frozen night—a night I wished would never end. Until we meet again, my brother.
—by Francesco Iellamo, 2015
===FINE===