You can almost see it, that white rose, resting on the lamppost on the Poetto seafront, the dawn of a missed Friday. The last night, ended on a pole: life stopped. And the excruciating pain , too strong and too great to fit all inside the church of Bonaria.
At the foot of the altar are two coffins: the white one, belonging to Filippo Corongiu, next to that of his lifelong friend, Gabriele Galici, a light walnut color. Together in life and also on the day of farewell: with their full seats and their scooters revving, they too seem to shout that this isn't right. That you can't die like this, at eighteen, with your future ahead of you and your plans shattered: there, on that pole on the Poetto seafront.
That white rose resting on the pole, white like the balloons at the foot of the coffins. In the front row, the families, torn apart by a grief that takes their breath away , seem to hear it screaming loudly, as they try to find strength in each other. The shared suffering of a double goodbye, together, as in life.
The salute is with smoke bombs, white and blue, while Gabriele's mother begins to dance in the square. She clutches a stuffed heart, then her husband joins in. They dance, thinking of their son in the coffin, inside the hearse. They dance and cry: and it is perhaps the most heartbreaking thing one can witness. Two families torn apart, one dancing, for that son gone too soon at the dawn of a day that will never come.
“Forever with us, Gabri and Fili”: they wrote it on their white T-shirts, a silent prayer for Gabriele and Filippo, and for those who remain.