I fiori del male
THE FLOWERS OF EVIL
These are not the flowers of Baudelaire.
This is a story of love and war.
The flowers are my father’s; the flowers that he has proudly taken care of since always, that he speaks to when he needs answers, that he waters daily with his tears and fertilizes with hope.
The evil is my mother’s; the one that is killing her, the one that she has been battling for a lifetime, the one that has mutilated her body but has never undermined her dignity.
For forty years my father has never forgotten to bring my mother a flower. This is what he did on all of their dates; this is what he does at every stage of this ordeal. Every day a special flower leaves our garden forever to wither slowly on the nightstand near the image of the Madonna.
Every day 23,000 people around the world are dying of cancer, the pestilence of the 3rd millennium.
These photographs tell the love story between my parents and the war they are battling along with so many others.
These photographs tell my story as well.
There I am, between love and war, between the flower petals and the cancer cells: my body still intact, my heart in pieces, my helpless tears, and my pain. I will leave some of it here, in these photographs, because there is no more room for it within me.
These are not the flowers of Baudelaire.
This is a story of love and war.
The flowers are my father’s; the flowers that he has proudly taken care of since always, that he speaks to when he needs answers, that he waters daily with his tears and fertilizes with hope.
The evil is my mother’s; the one that is killing her, the one that she has been battling for a lifetime, the one that has mutilated her body but has never undermined her dignity.
For forty years my father has never forgotten to bring my mother a flower. This is what he did on all of their dates; this is what he does at every stage of this ordeal. Every day a special flower leaves our garden forever to wither slowly on the nightstand near the image of the Madonna.
Every day 23,000 people around the world are dying of cancer, the pestilence of the 3rd millennium.
These photographs tell the love story between my parents and the war they are battling along with so many others.
These photographs tell my story as well.
There I am, between love and war, between the flower petals and the cancer cells: my body still intact, my heart in pieces, my helpless tears, and my pain. I will leave some of it here, in these photographs, because there is no more room for it within me.
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