SISTERS

I don’t like to be pitied. I’d rather laugh. Faced with looks of sympathy,for thirty years I’ve been saying:“I don’t have a father, but I don’t care,that’s the way it is. I have a photo.”I also have two sisters and an Italian mother… but careful… no talking about “him” in front of “her” allowed… That would cause a volcanic eruption. Because apparently the volcano hasn’t died out yet. I think it’s partly because of my face. Just like his. When they see me laugh, my family says: “She’s the spitting image of him.” And my mother is sad and proud at the same time. She’s proud because I’m blond like him, when they’re all brunette. But ask me, I’d rather be like them.That’s why I get into trouble like guys do. To be like them. To be even more Italian than they are. Artistic trouble, as my godfather says. I’m his favorite. He’s my favorite, too.But still, I’d like to see him for real one day, the guy in the photo. Except they say that he’s dangerous. That he’s crazy…