The Drill Rifle

Eleven years had passed since the marching Allies left the small and peaceful town of Baiano; they glanced back and heard the song they cherished and loved: admiring those pretty stripes and stars! Grateful for their kindness, women threw flowers petals and claimed them heroes; the smallest boys and girls followed them dreaming of their America: a free land where everything was granted! I pulled a yellowed picture out of an old photo album... uncle Steve held a drill rifle given to him by a young dying American soldier whispering, " Keep this rifle and remember that I fought to free Italy... to give you back your freedom! " Minutes after he died staring at the cobalt Southern sky... perhaps his wish was to be buried there sensing serenity! The year of our Lord was ninenteen sixty two and on that memorable Christmas Eve, I went back to that room to review the photo of the young and proud soldier holding his drill rifle: he had a charming Yankee smile; I wanted that rifle, nothing more... nothing less, but who could get me one? Santa Clause was a fascinating fairy tale that only little children believed in; I peaked in the chimney, but ashes blackened my adolescent face... " Santa, Santa...I have a wish for you! I like to get a drill rifle and be a soldier! " He did not hear me...I shuddered in despair. I went to sleep that evening, the chill crystallized the snowflakes stuck to the foggy window; why did the distant stars shine brighter? Why did gorgeous Baby Jesus smile at me? I woke up on Christmas Day, and next to me there it was: the drill rifle I wanted so much! I looked around and my dad stared at me giggling, " You have been a good boy: here's your present, son! " Written on 12/12/2016