Stories and News No. 820
Hope, a British baby girl, has lived 74 minutes due to anencephaly. Her twin brother is safe and alive. The parents decided to donate her organs...
My name is Hope.
Divide me and take everything.
Grab what you want.
What you yearn.
And what you do not ask, ignoring what you miss.
Lift me and separate me in seventy-four shares.
The first is called possibility, all I could be.
And that you still can.
The second is called generosity, mine, my parents, the parties that made me complete your life. Indeed, exaggerate, and put on the table also what already complete you, but you never thanked.
The third, fourth and fifth call them the three missing children. The son you will have someday, the one you never had, and who is not your son.
But he is.
Believe me, he does.
The sixth and the seventh call them the blind lovers, human dancers fused in a perfect embrace and projected towards each other, though unable to grasp the form and content of the others. As the gift of every part of myself to as many strangers.
From eighth to twelfth call them the wonderful five, or the more famous fantastic four plus one, magical powers that for seventy-four minutes told me the story named life.
The fragments from thirteenth to twenty-third call them the eleven unique heroes in the field. Not praising the name, nor bonding the stamp, much less imitating the gesture. Because the normality of this team is an excellence hidden among stories with simple players like me.
From twenty-fourth to forty-first call them the never celebrated eighteen, the expected and extraordinary goals. What would really have made me unique and that only a lucky coincidence or a mighty willpower let it emerge from your face.
From the forty-second to sixty-sixth call them the golden wedding. Just now, because I own only an hour or a bit more, the time I will participate dressed of love and gratitude for those who, for love and gratitude, will celebrate the encounter that gave me light.
The sixty-seventh and sixty-eighth call them us, you and I, strongest winged brother. Dear sky, please, make the wind blowing double for him.
From the sixty-ninth to the seventieth call them you, worshiped parents. Dear sky, please, make the wind above blowing away their tears for my too brief passage.
The seventy-first, seventy-second and seventy-three call them our perfect number, you and us without me, because I hope it will be, without regret, with all the remaining best.
My last part, the seventy one, I will take with me as a souvenir.
To remember the gift I have left behind.
To tell stories.
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