Is There A Cure For Sensory Neuropathy

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These our '10s,
so lucky, so full of hope
A father. A son.

laugh at gilded butterflies .
Shakespeare, Lear: Act V, scene III

When he was fired for the umpteenth time, my father came home and darker than usual. It was the fifth time in a year, and the excuse was always the same: "reduction of personnel due to the crisis."

My father hated the crisis.

no more even that work, we have the furniture distrained Mom, we both knew. I was seven years old, but I was a kid very cute.

Nobody cared that we were left alone, he and I, and my mother was missing so unbearable.
There was a crisis, and for them this was a valid reason than to rescue us from our memories.

There was a picture in the kitchen, where we had all three: Mom, Dad and me.
Mom could also be beautiful in a hospital bed. In that photo dad smiled pressing my arm while I was looking at a point beyond the target.
seemed ages ago, but had gone only two years.

That morning, my father spent much time in the kitchen to watch quella foto, poi d'un tratto, si alzò di scatto dalla sedia, prese la foto tra le mani e la buttò nella spazzatura. Dalla mia stanza sentì tutto, ma non emisi un solo suono.
Solo allora sembrò accorgersi di me, ma non ebbe la forza di sorridermi, come faceva di solito. Aveva qualcosa in gola, che lottava per uscire. La stessa cosa che avevo io e che non voleva saperne di andare via.

Lo vidi dalla finestra scendere le scale, e andare in garage alla ricerca di qualcosa.

Quando tornò fuori, aveva un'ascia in una mano e una sega nell'altra.
Senza dire nulla, iniziò a potare un alberello che si ostinava da anni a crescere sul marciapiede davanti casa mia, malgrado tutto e malgrado tutti.
Quell'alberello was the only thing that made sense to look across the street. For the rest there were only blocks and concrete walls as far as the eye can see. And my father was pruning.
distinctly remember thinking that my father would stop prune if I only I could get out of bed and I were looking out the window. Except that I could not.

Meanwhile the tree is getting smaller. In less than no time had been reduced to a withered stump, with no more branches to be trimmed. Did they only look at, so defenseless, without arms to defend themselves from the world. He looked like me, I thought.

Then my father started to cut the bark. And yet I could not get up.
Finita la corteccia, scese sottoterra per potare le radici, una a una. Sentivo quelle cesoie affondare nel terreno e uscirne ogni volta con un brano differente di alberello. Non stava solo tagliando le sue radici, lui voleva rubargli l'anima. E io non riuscivo a fare altro che restare immobile sul letto a guardare il soffitto.

Quando terminarono anche le radici, lui iniziò a segare la terra, sempre più in profondità, con una foga tale, come se da quel gesto dipendesse tutta la sua vita.
Dalla mia stanza, nel frattempo, speravo che prima o poi incontrasse il magma e dovesse arrendersi. Ma non fu così. Riuscì a trovare il modo di evitare il magma che abitava il nucleo del nostro pianeta e superare il centro della terra.

continued to saw through the night. I'm up there in my room I could not even move, I was reduced to a vegetative state, in contemplation of the absolute ceiling. I told myself that when he arrived in China, I would have got up and I would have stopped, but I could not really be convinced.
When dawn came up I heard him distinctly traced back to the streets of Shanghai.
And for the first time in a long time, my body began to give tentative signs of life. I sat up at the same moment when he emerged from the earth into the air in China. Now stop, I thought. But evidently he had other plans.
In less than no time he climbed the trees, following the branches and then leaves and from there began to move across the sky, its huge with those shears. With

they opened the road up, up, on and on, sawing everything, fiercely, until the infinite space. Arrived there, he began to cut entire constellations, prune blacks holes, galaxies, stars and stardust.

was cutting away everything. On the other hand: no longer made sense, without my mother. We both knew.

When in the end, after making a complete revolution of the universe, once again landed with a thud on the sidewalk in front of my window, I pulled back the curtains and I finally facing.

The tree was still there. I knew I had always known, could not be otherwise.

And beneath him, my father was crying.

It would also laid off for the feelings, particularly those with fixed-term contracts, which avoid the emotional shock of the butcher's in social revolution.

anxiety, depression, pain, when not broken, leave us numb inside, unable to do certain movements that before there were so spontaneous.
Just before leaving, my mother wrote me that: There is something in the life of everyone who is not allowed to write .
He was right: there is something in everyone's life, which is not allowed to write ever.