"You who were born where there is always the sun
above a rock that you can dive
and that sun has its heart inside you
on that rock in May a flower was born. "
I like to imagine I was born on the notes of this song that my dad used to sing to me.
It was a Sunday morning that smelled of jasmine and hopes that May 29 30 years ago welcomed me in his arms. It was 12.00 o'clock when I opened the little blue eyes to the world. Strange but true, I did not cry, not even a little. In fact, they had to spank me to provoke a reaction. Even today I can hardly believe it, as it is possible that just me, that I have the ability to cry for anything, especially in the less opportune moments (during a guided tour, for example, in front of about fifty people, just to name one) just that day I did not cry? Of course, I can not exclude the hormonal component, the meteorological and also the presence or absence of confectionery products in the pantry (just to make us miss anything) as factors that can increase exponentially my ability to cry. I have so thoroughly analyzed the thing that I think I feel able to even dare a chemical / physical formula that the cry, which we will mark with the letter P, is the product of premenstrual syndrome SPM multiplied by the rain P2 nutella fraction QN, where the Q stands for quantity of nutella. In this way we have P = SPMxP2: QN. In short, everything is there, from the amount of nutella able to compensate for the hormonal disorder mixed with rain and cold. There are also currents of thought that sometimes only a hug is enough, while others think that crying is therapeutic. All theses absolutely valid, but I remain firm on the nutella. In light of these exciting discoveries, why he attended classical high school instead of science, remains a mystery. But this is another story. Returning to that Sunday morning 30 years ago, it is the fact that I did not cry. I think I have an answer for this too. But this time we move more towards the philosophy than mathematics. You know, when you are little there are few things that really scare us, or perhaps it would be more correct to say, that we are born completely without fear. Then, growing inevitably, everything that we live marks us, changes us and sometimes leaves us alone and frightened. But that morning I like to think that I was not afraid of anything. Indeed, it seems that during the 9 months locked inside the belly of the mother, has designed a real entrance, or better yet, "exit to effect." Oh yes, because as my mother often tells me, in all the ultrasounds previously done, it turned out that I was a boy. And so, when I came into the world, the doctor took me from the feet, holding me upside down (but what are the ways I say !?) and pointing as I was the last model of goblin discounted 50% turned to my mom asking them : "Madam, excuse me, but does this look like a boy?" Do you want to know my mother's answer? "It's a female? Matri mia and now as I call it? I liked Ramon! "Yes, because the name that belonged to me as a male was just Ramon (typical Italian name, there is nothing to say, the immediate association with the Secret and all the Spanish telenovelas is completely random, of course). But thank God (because only He could get me out of this mess) came an A to refine my name at the end. And I was born, Ramona. But the most beautiful reaction ever was that of my dad. He wanted a girl very much and when he learned the news he literally jumped for joy in the hospital corridors, shouting "she's female, she's female!" I like so much to imagine him so, in one of the probably happiest moments of his life, while his hair is dancing around his neck and his tobacco beard is hard to hide a new smile, able to draw curves never reached before. Sometimes I still wonder how they managed to exchange me for a male, a simple medical error? No, of course, even on this I was able to give me an answer. It was a sign. It meant that in my life I would have to come out of the many attributes, but many times. My mother does not know, but inside I always feel a little Ramon. The only thing I could not answer, even the most improbable, bizarre, useless answers is because on January 15th 2005 your heart stopped beating. I thought it was destiny, it is the story of the most beautiful flower caught by the garden, I thought it was life, or perhaps it is more correct to say it is simply death. I do not know what it is. It will be the only question that will never have an answer, the only question mark on which I will try to sleep at night, modifying its roundness like a pillow. But I'm still here Daddy, listening to you sing May flower while strumming the guitar on my birthday, with the tobacco beard and the smile that still resounds in the wind. Your flower born on the cliff of Favignana, bent by the rain, but always with the sun in the heart.