The story...of stories.

Reading a story made up of many stories is like getting lost in a labyrinth of emotions, where each narrative alley is a new world to explore. It's like dancing through the pages, discovering unique characters and compelling plots that intertwine like threads of a magical fabric. The beauty lies in the power of words that paint mental landscapes, allowing you to travel through infinite universes without ever leaving the comfort of the pages.

It was February 20, 2019, the first day Dad flew to heaven. The first day of my new life, without my rock, my point of reference. The first day that Mom, Livia and I found ourselves looking at our lives with different eyes... and he, the great Gino, was suddenly gone.

On that February 20th, a few days before his birthday, we found ourselves organizing the last heartbreaking celebration, and I must say that, besides my father's beauty and regality, what I remember as if it were a parallel universe was the presence of all, and I mean all, of his lifelong friends. They were present that day, just as they had been in my childhood, my adolescence, my youth, and my adulthood... and even before that, they were there in my father's good old days of youth.

I remember the living room, with its large teal bricks, me holding his hand and repeatedly saying "Goodbye Dad," and suddenly, almost tearless, I looked towards the entrance of that enormous, cold room and realized it was packed with men, boys from another time, all huddled together, tightly packed, as if posing for a grand group photo on a cathedral staircase.

I don't know how long I didn't have the courage to look them in the eyes, not until after the thirty-day mourning period, because in my life, where they were... well, he was there; and where he was... they were there: with their stories, their memories that at every celebration became real skits with costumes and improvised sets at the last minute.

All my life I've heard about Frassati, Don Pasquale Cantalupo, school adventures, ecclesiastical adventures, high school plays, soccer games and "those guys" from the "Apocalypse." It sounds like "Big Deal" "Great Warriors." I know of a group of boys who, since childhood, attended the Church of San Francesco in Conversano, and I also know that in their youth, when classes were "boys only" and "girls only," many of them became engaged to "each other."

Over time, everyone embarked on their life path: some forcibly ended their studies, others perhaps were not suited for it; still others had the opportunity to attend university, with the good fortune (for the time, a great emancipation) of even moving away from home, leaving their childhood town, to face the big city.

Well, on that February 20th, 2019, all those guys met again after years, they all gathered together to say goodbye to their great friend Gino... and it seems they haven't left each other since.

They started organizing meetings, lunches, outings, eager to immerse themselves in their fondest memories, in the laughter that was never buried, in that evergreen attitude of truly shared, special, indissoluble moments that always make you feel good and bring tears, yes... but tears of joy and fun from "the times that were."

And how good it feels to the heart to know that "time stood still" in those summer days, in those adolescent adventures, in the scent of fried peppers in the old town with short shorts and sandals on the smooth cobblestones of a churchyard. And how much serenity it brings to the heart, the mere thought of twenty-year-olds with thick raven hair and high socks on dirt fields. Feeling like roaring lions again, those of the Apocalypse!

I know of a dark, tall dad, with so much black hair he looked like a bear, and a 70s bouffant on his head, connected to sideburns. A lean physique, straight legs, large glasses and the captain's armband. I know of a boy attending 3°C, I know of funny and wild friends, already quite hairy back then. Vito, Ciccio (whom Dad always loved to call FrancoLovè), PaoloLì, Giorgio and again... Vito, Vito, Vito, Umberto, Dionigi, and the unstoppable FrancoGalì (all one word), Doctor Angelo whom Dad, with a sly smile, at every ENT visit would tell me: "<> and many, many others (no offense if I haven't named them).

These guys here, because for me they will always be boys, had a brilliant idea: to meet, as retirees, every Saturday morning for the "coffee of facts," of memories and timeless laughter that unites them... until they decided to write down something that comes to mind, that becomes a tangible and, I would say, "tradable" story that leaves a concrete mark on the lives of those who will come and who knew them.

Thus, in December 2023, the publication "...Infinite Stories..." was born, of which I am posting the cover created by graphic designer Rebecca Di Turi.

15 stories, 15 different writing styles that truly represent each of them; and if you notice, on the cover, there are 15 ways of "holding a book," sometimes shared. Yes, because each of them is different: physically, culturally, socially, but what they have in common is the purity and beauty of "memory."

The beauty of sharing a youthful memory as a common ground is like opening a window to the past and rediscovering together the vivid colors of those moments. It's like intertwining laughter, knowing glances, and shared adventures into a bond that defies time. Through that memory, an emotional bridge is created that connects lived experiences, forging a special complicity and a sense of belonging with those who share that fragment of the past, annihilating every kind of "diversity." And in an instant, wrinkles disappear, hair returns, and you see yourselves thin and tall in those bell-bottoms and tight turtlenecks. In an instant, there are more bikes than cars. In that instant, you savor again that thrill of freedom on picnics, throwing yourselves on country lawns, in the shade of an olive tree, stealing figs between a soccer ball and a thousand jokes.

The power of the mind. The power of memory lies in its gift to preserve the past, shaping our present and illuminating the path to the future, much like the back cover of their book: memories connect us to our roots, teach us the lessons learned and give us precious fragments of who we are. Through them, we cherish emotions, relationships and experiences that give meaning to our existence. Memory is a beacon that guides our choices, reminds us of the joys and challenges faced, and allows us to build indelible bonds with our past.

They are all proof of how truly precious and real friendship, true friendship, far from smartphones and technology, is. And even if my dad is no longer among them, I like to think that, as the skilled orator he was, he would have written this:

"When an ending point transforms into a new starting point, a window of opportunity and rebirth opens. Endings are not just conclusions, but also chapters that prepare the ground for new beginnings. Through that ending point, we are invited to reconsider our narrative, embrace change, and embark on a journey towards unexplored horizons, in this new phase of life. It is the moment when resilience merges with hope, transforming the end of a chapter into a prologue for new adventures and discoveries."

In memory of you, Dad... may your memories be infinite and keep you forever alive.

Always and forever.

Tania Spagnolo