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In memory of Francesco Fortugno
It stops pecking the crumbs of bread that my mum scattered last evening on the terrace. It's a white pigeon. The peace flag hanging on the grille is fading but the pigeon has come to see us anyway.
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- 656 reads
Silence
Someone is knocking on the door. It's the delivery man with our pizzas: two margherite and two with tuna fish and no mozzarella. The three of us start eating, sitting on the carpet of the dining room with the voice of a tv reporter on the background.
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- 585 reads