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venerdì 21 ottobre 2011

Stars and evangelists

There were five of us, little ones, in the villa. We flew down from heaven holding hands, first the twins and then, every second year, in this order my sister Sara, my brother Marco and last and maybe also least myself: Ester. When my mother found out that she was pregnant for the fourth time, with three little boys running around the place and one little girl hiding behind her skirts (something that she hated...), she sunk on the sofa and heaved outloud for everybody to hear: "Not another one!". This was my sweet welcome in this world. She tried her best to loose me, easy task as, during my nine months stay in her pretty womb, she moved, with her large italian family, from an ground floor apartment off the parco degli Scipioni to the white villa, a paradise of garden and rooms, that was to become our house for good. I can just see her, face - let's say - to the wardrobe, pushing and pushing with all her migh, red cheeks and all. I, myself, dancing inside her, happy as a bumble bee, in a lovely shake shake... I was born on a winter's day, without a name. I should have been Matthew, if a boy, beacuse my mother wanted the poker of the evangelists. Gian (for John) luca (for Luke) was one of the twins, two names in a go, good shot! Marco (for Mark) the third son, so only Mathhew was left over for little me, the Matthew that I saw, much later, on a Caravaggio painting in the dark church of Saint Louis of the French near Piazza Navona. A light hits the fellow and his face goes: "Me?", fingers pointing to his chest..  That could have been me. My grandma Stella (for Star) came to the rescue: "Why not call her Ester?". Ester, a star, like herself. That was that. I was Ester and God bless me. 

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