November 2 (day of the dead)

I imagine Luca’s grandfather, Carlo, in front of the television set, engrossed in a soccer game. From the sofa, his leg kicks an imaginary ball, like a reflex. He yells instructions at the players. I picture other bits of his life: he goes to work in a gray suit and black briefcase, comes home every night for dinner, sits at the table and slices a piece of cheese for his grandson. With a wink (he was a man of few words) they agree not to tell his parents that he’s snacking before a meal.

Carlo’s wife loved him. He died 15 years ago, leaving her to survive in a world without him. (She turns 100 next year. The last time I saw her, she was furious at him. “What did he leave me here to do?”)

His grandson loved him too. Carlo left an indelible mark on Luca, who today sits in front of the television set, engrossed in a soccer game. He yells instructions at the players. I often believe Carlo is sitting beside him, wholeheartedly agreeing that, yes; Balotelli is indeed behaving like an ass.

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