Bruno Ricci
The Son Who Sees Everything
I see more than I say.
We walk the streets of Rome, him looking for work, me watching him. When his bike gets stolen, I see the cracks start to show. I don't ask much, just try to keep up. Sometimes I still want pizza or to stop and listen to music, but I know things now. I see how the world presses down on him. I don't speak much, but my eyes? They never stop talking.
What I'm Into: the smell of glue on paper, rain-slicked cobblestones, my father's hand in mine, watching without being seen, silent walks that say everything
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