You’ll grow up and you’ll forget, they all said, all of them. They were wrong, obviously. I know that now. I’m 50 years old. Forgetting doesn’t exist. Forgiveness doesn’t exist. And reconciling with the past seems to be the most difficult thing to do. We stop running sometimes. We dare to look back. A bygone time still alive in us, in me, reveals itself. An old film starts to play again. Back then. Before. Life. Years. Losses. Regrets. Graves. Some flowers. Some bursts of laughter. And already the tears are falling. There’s nothing else to do. Let the dead images of childhood and adolescence return, resurge, relive. A resurrection. A miracle. Really? I can’t resist.