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Plastic Flowers for ItaliansButchered in Auto

Accidents

Just as in any other Christian, particularly Roman Catholic, nationwhere religion molds overly the social, economic and political moresof its inhabitants, there is a premium especially, in Italy, on objectsthat reflect miserableness whether they be crucifixes, hermetically-sealed glass coffins containing dead-for-centuries holy people,statues dripping with blood, priests with holes in their hands,bleeding sacred hearts... ad infinitum. From my perspective, thesesymbols prompt the Italians I live with to accommodate a unique

disposition that induces them to lament. And they do it so well!But what is worse, Italians expect you to join in with them in sharinghappenings which, in other cultures, might not be thought of asbeing edifying. Italians want to be felt sorry for. The catch-22here is that if you do commiserate, you are doing yourself a gooddeed, and for that you should be thankful to the Italians for thisblessed opportunity. An Italian will not thank you. You must thankhim or her. By giving thanks, you submit. Nothing pleases theracist Italians more than your recognition of their quasi-fascist

sense of superiority, their contrived haughtiness. Half of theItalians live in the 1930s; the other half live in the 1960s. Thesedesperate souls are struggling in vain to be something they are notwithout acknowledging the dreadfully tragic consequences of theiractions which are often violent and self-destructive.

It is customary to see plastic containers or milk cartons holdingflowers attached to poles or fences near to where an automobile ormotorcycle mishap killed an often inebriated or doped Italian causal

agent. Years ago there used to be real flowers in these make-shiftrecipients, but today they are plastic and in some places, wherecollisions are frequent, ten to fifteen bouquets might be visualized

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in rowspropped up there sometimes for years, the artificial floralarrangements now blanched by the sun and covered with the sootand grime from passing buses, trucks, cars, scooters and even, onoccasion, horse-drawn carriages.

One late morning in Sesto Fiorentino, I approached the bus stopwhere I was to wait to travel on to Firenze. About four or fivemetres beyond, I could see a young woman kneeling down andpreparing to set up a composition of live flowers which laid on thepavement in rolled newspaper pages right next to her. I went over.

May I ask what you are doing, please?

She looked up startled and responded compactly, but very softly:

I'm composing these flowers for my brother.

Your brother? I quizzed.

Yes. He was killed here four years ago in a motorcycle accident.I come here every month with flowers for him.

I told her I was very sorry and she nodded her appreciation very

demurely.She was a comely individual and exceptionally sensitive in the way

she expressed herself.

I wanted to do something for her.

I changed the tone of my voice somewhat to express myseriousness.

Do you really think your brother would want you to be here so sadcommemorating his brutal death again and again and again?

Don't you think he would want you to go on with your life--to be happy, to be free from the gloominess this tragedy causes

you?

In an instant, she burst out sobbing.

Her face was red as a beet.

I put my hand on her shoulder to soothe her.

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Suddenly, she stood up.Erect.

As if she had been regenerated.She closed in on me and abruptly hugged me almost violently.

Thank you.

She walked away. The flowers remained on the sidewalk.

I refused to call after her.

When she turned out of sight at the corner,I picked up the flowers.

I returned to the bus stop.

I waited for a beautiful woman to pass by,and when one did, I presented the beauties to her.

She was taken aback.

For me?Of course!

But why?

You are beautiful!

Her face was red as a beet, too.

* * *

Authored by Anthony St. John

15 December 2009Calenzano, Italy

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