Angelo Grassia
Finally we are here
Translated by: Lisa Masoni
Publisher: Tektime
Properties and rights reserved.
The reproduction, even partial, of texts and illustrations by any means, including photocopying and electronic reproduction, is forbidden without the written permission of the Publisher and the Author.
Any reference to people, things or facts actually happened is purely coincidental.
As the wave of the sea is my mind:
it jumps impetuous and it agitates trembling!
Table of Contents
1
After the publication of my first book "The Mystery of the Book", extraordinary and unexplained events continued to occur.
The first unexplained event I remember with great joy and with great emotion, occurred on 06/24/2017, when I made the first official presentation of the book in a library. It was a special day for me, because this great opportunity was given to me: to make my first book known.
I still remember, with emotion, that day. It was a hot day, the air was un breathable.
My best friends renounced to a day at sea to be next to me on such a particular day. I went to the library full of happiness, bringing with me the famous typescript given to me by Sabatino, now my greatest friend, but then he was a stranger for me, the cheerful chubby man, the second-hand dealer of the Gaeta market, and I also brought the famous booklet containing the poem "A Claudia Mia", on the first page of which there was a bust of Vittorio taken from a photograph. My intention was to declaim this beautiful poem, full of feelings for the loved one; in my opinion it was written not by immersing the nib in the ink-containing ink-pot, but directly in the heart of the person who wrote it, so beautiful.
The hall was full of people: the first bearer spoke starting to comment on the book, then the second intervened and finally it was my turn. I was calm and happy, and I began to discuss my book, the reason I had written it, of all the background that had led to its birth. Everything was going well, until the moment when I decided to declare the beautiful poetry. I picked up the little book and proudly I showed it to the public, I opened the first page and the picture of Vittorio jumped in my eyes. It was the same photo, the picture of all time, the photo I had seen dozens of times, but at that precise moment it seemed different.
In that picture I had always seen Vittorio looking gruff and above all very sad, but at that moment his image seemed different to me, he seemed amiable, sweet, kind and particularly happy; he was thrilled by all sides, as if he wanted to thank me for what I was doing for him at that moment: to bring to light the poem he sent to his beloved Claudia for the five years of marriage. Seeing him so happy as ever, I was so moved that the words did not