It’s 8 a.m. on Dec. 31, and Assunta is already waiting for me.
“Dottoré, just a few more hours and the countdown begins. 5,4,3,2,1 and then the fireworks go: Boom, boom, boom. Each one goes straight to my heart, makes it skip a beat and I can’t breathe. And the worst part is that people look at me, and they expect me to stand there and smile and toast. But you tell me: Toast to what? To the shitty year that’s ending, or to the other, even shittier one that’s about to start? Dottoré, I’m sorry. Actually, to everyone out there, please forgive me, but I don’t see anything to be happy about!”
“Assunta, look at this picture. I took it this morning at dawn. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. And I checked the forecast: tomorrow, it’s supposed to be nice too!”
“And so…?”
“Well, let’s hope there will be wind tonight, otherwise, with all the fireworks, there’ll be too much smoke for us to see the sun in the morning!”
“Dottoré, I’m not following…”
“Assunta, I’m not exactly sure what I’m saying either. But you’ve made me think that maybe the only thing one can wish for is that the sun will shine tomorrow. The sun doesn’t give a crap whether we’re happy or not, or whether we want to look at it or not. It just stays up there and shines, forgiving us all…”
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