The last thing I remember about my father was him walking away wearing his camel coat. I remember him from the back, his dark hair escaping from his hat.
It was Christmas evening and it was cold, for Rome at least. He had just accompanied me to a train, which I would take to reach my cousins in Calabria. He was not happy that I was leaving, and would die a few hours later. A stroke, the doctors said.
The following day I took the train back to Rome, to find the house full of smoking people and my mother crying. I was 15 and my grandparents were all alive: it felt unnatural, like a house with a Nativity scene, but with a coffin.
I went to the movies the day after the funeral: cinema was something that I had shared with my father; it was a way to still be with him.