In the evenings of August each year, for thirty years,
we gathered in my mountain home,
my family and those of my husband’s brothers.
they played cards until late at night.
The favorite game was “conchen” , firmly opposed “the Burraco”
in one of these evenings, as usual,
our laughed at the quips of Franco,
TV, remained unusually on ,
sent a movie where there was a mother
that for the love of his daughter, killing all,
and his murderous rage, eventually
turned to the same daughter
“Mommy ..mommy” was repeated endlessly.
My son Rolando wanted to win at all costs,
for him the possibility of loss does not exist.
several times was about to close the conchen
and punctual, not intentionally, my game has prevented him.
As expected, at an inconvenient time, I closed i the game.
Rolando was furious, an friend said, “Sometimes the mothers .. eh?”
Family issued the verdict… anna is “mommy”..
moments of serenity ..
Mommy is not going more in her mountain home.
Mommy will never more in her mountain home.