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Brescia, between the end of March and the beginning of April, 2020.
I remember well those precise and repetitive days, clear in the sky, warm. Long groundhog days, waiting, suspended between a news broadcast and an article on the web, between an alarm, a breakfast, weary hours at the computer, a lunch, a digestion with Matt Elliott, a sluggish afternoon, a shower, a dinner and finally sleep.
Matt would visit me on the terrace, two square meters of freedom that was worth its weight in gold. Lying like a contortionist next to my wife, I took refuge in his classic melancholy, his fatal dramatic nature, his sound minimalism. The earbuds further isolated me, they were a high fence to my anxieties and discomforts. I bitterly cradled myself in his light, plucked guitar, sought comfort in the caress of his voice. His sad folk was the perfect soundtrack for the decadence of the moment, his continual and dim mood, and the few variations (here and there a cello, light touches of piano) were drowsy lullabies for those who longed for rest.
There were many goodbyes, many emotional farewells that remained stuck in the throat. There were many emotions that burst in isolation like light soap bubbles that a violent physics prevented from making the slightest contact. There was only the phone, a call that had to come, a ring that would become a thunder so violent as to unleash a downpour in a clear sky. Matt told me that the worst would pass, that peace always comes after the storm, he gave me a sliver of optimism, a useless piece of advice. The humid climate of the cover was still a harbinger of other gray and indecipherable times. And he knew, he already imagined everything that would happen.
In the end, the mobile phone rang, a modern bell tolling for death. The sun continued to shine and it was getting hotter. And I only wanted the cold so that there would be someone to warm me with a hug.
Matt's was a long embrace, tragic but sincere.
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