Yesterday I went to the cemetery to greet my father, Joseph. I have an old familiar with that place. Me, my mother instilled, who played often - in spite of his faith - the Tomb heart. The most common thought is that in a few years, the piece of life that I lived without my mother will be better than what I had in her fate to live. But yesterday, watching my father beside him, other famous faces, friends, I was wondering: what is the picture which I'll watch the survivors? Why, if you legitimately discuss the living will, is it not possible for mortals to choose their window on time? My father looked at me ... To which his father belonged to that face? Not last, helpless as a newborn with Alzheimer's who had devastated in a few years ... It was still the proud man, proud, he wanted to conquer the world. I chose that picture, and is an important choice: arrogai me the privilege to decide on his face that he would continue to study the future of the world. And I looked around. Faces of old, broken lives still young, black and white photos, background landscapes. Which pictures would choose for me? Who was I'll be the end of my earthly journey? The happy child in the arms of his mother, seventeen year old Sturmer discovered with amazement that the world, her husband, the professor, the father ... That picture I grind to a halt to one of the lives that have been, will be my "persona" offered to the gaze of Who wants to remember or those who pass by-case basis and will stop for a moment or compassionate curiosity.
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