Yesterday afternoon, in this fine resort by the sea that has become home, I met, my chance, my cousin. Her father was buried yesterday. Elderly and sick, my uncle caught pneumonia during his second night under a tent, and after a week died in a hospital away from his hometown. He might have lived some longer, if it was not for the earthquake, but somehow I understand how so many elderly now feel the injustice of going on with their lives, while the tombs of grandchildren are still warm. I remember my own grandfather who far back in 1971, at the funeral of my youngest brother who lived just 24 hours, continued to cry saying "I should have gone, not him", and as if he had decided he did not want to live any longer, he let himself go, and passed away two months later.
My uncle had come a long way, suffered the hardship of WW2, was imprisoned by the Germans, in the war aftermath had to emigrate to São Paulo, Brazil where three of his five children were born, I remember when they came back, and lived in a large old house next to the archbishopry. Photos of the earthquake show that old house too, near the collapsed Valadier dome of the Anime Sante church. These monuments on TV are shown side by side with the so many places attached to the innumerable bits of memories of a lifetime.
I do not remember ever meeting Sara again, but when I think of what happened to her life, her dreams at 3.32 that night it is only abysmal anguish, her handsome beloved boyfriend under the ruins of those houses at our ground zero. New dawns have come after that one, and she had to wake up to another day when she would not be meeting him. When will our youngs be able to look at the rising sun again, how can anyone help them, after the too many tears have dried, to fight the desolation of this spring season ... Rain is the right weather for mourning, not the sun rays that touch blossoming almond trees. April is the cruellest month.