Siamo tutti abruzzesi 
Sono tornata dalla Grecia e, dopo giorni di allegria e spensieratezza, torno a confrontarmi da vicino con il lutto profondo e intenso per la morte di mia madre. Saluto questo rientro a casa con gli odiosi fogli della successione, in quell'ufficio che l'ha ospitata per anni e in cui era solita darmi la benvenuta dietro quella scrivania con quell'espressione indimenticabile. Qualcuno mi saluta riconoscendo nelle mie espressioni i suoi sorrisi, rintracciando nei my features the indelible mark of belonging, a genealogy indelible and it fills me with joy that the pride of bringing his signs on my face, framing my face in her beautiful smile. I let myself be overwhelmed by a natural emotion, including those friendly faces who affectionately come to meet me as if to greet me in her that she has left, from the trauma of birth, the story of a bond that no pension and no be able to erase wrinkles and that whoever did know, and myself, will recognize until the last of my days.
got home I plunge in pain Abruzzo, which today is really what I see and all the other signs of mourning those of my own. I would like to do as my father, who decided to turn off the television because unable to see more tears, because the pain of others only serves to exacerbate their own. I choose silence instead of sharing in an attempt to overcome my grief, I believe that the empathic ability to empathize with the grief of others is a crush suffering and I can not, at this time, a roommate with the authentic feel not despair. In the silence of my room, accompanied by images of those who advance two hundred and five coffins on the screen, left a fresh pain, return to the source of my tears and I rebel against all this grief, silence, stifled as a conviction, that misunderstanding and the inability to see God's hand that grabs you and gets rid of all this suffering. My silence is a silence that did not answer my cry of pain does not receive an echo of God, the soul of my Job cursed the land that opens under our feet and only in men seeking shelter in his torment. I think of this earthquake, I think the words of condolence and solidarity in the brewery, in an ostentatious English, that bartender Athenians addressed to us with tears in my eyes, I think the mothers who weep for sons and the mothers who weep for the children and the rest waiting for the silence of my soul was torn and his room is lit with new light. I let myself listening to a human writing, even lay people through from the divine, and sink in the pages of Erri de Luca, always so present and revealing.
"No generation in the Mediterranean also had no experience of an earthquake. Even Nero, amateur poetry, tried to describe it in a gesture not at all clumsy:
sub terris tonuisse putes, in the land believe that he was thundering. More is more southern and has danced the tarantella of the subsoil. [...] So I was there that Sunday in the autumn of 1980 when the Gulf began to vibrate in unison and in many we hastened down the stairs. It lasted over a minute shock. During that time, everyone felt the giddiness of a loss of balance, a need to stand to keep from falling, from un'ubriacatura sober. The sacred scriptures known as earthquakes. As usual, what matters most is Isaiah, the greatest poet of the Mediterranean together with the seismic point in trying to grasp the sound:
raa hitroaà (crash crashed into) the earth,
por hitporerà (break is broken),
mot hitmotetà (he staggered stagger) and then: 'waver, falter ground like a drunk' (24, 19-20). Behold, not us, fleas of the soil, we were drunk, but the earth, for who knows which wine to guzzle boiling wrath "(Erri de Luca,
Alzaia ).
