I have one favorite picture these days. It shows part of me holding my 15 days daughter. In reality we had just arrived from the hospital, after a long stay. It was so long that the little one had already been “adopted” by the white gown personnel. I had to run away before she started to call one of them mother. The excuse to keep us there was: too tired to go home.
Once at home, we started to take the first pictures. I have a few I like. As the one I’m talking about. But as you might guess, there is nothing exceptional in this particular picture. That’s right. The reason I like it is not visible. It is written on the back.
When I look to this picture and a few others with the same fate, I remember how I always had self-conscience of the way I look. The gesture of cutting part of the picture was very irritating to my mother. She didn’t complain a lot because we were living the peace interregnum following the birth of a grandchild.
However, without me noticing it, my mother wrote on the back: “This was taken at our Roma avenue apartment. Your ‘half mother’ is holding you.” She was addressing to my newborn daughter. She wanted her to know what I had done. She must have been really crossed with me.