My father was the youngest of thirteen siblings.
The family had long been up to twelve children.
At the end of the First World War,
his parents’ satisfaction was immense, none
of them had been summoned to the front.
And they rejoiced and celebrated so much,
that, on the ecstasy of the moment,
and in advanced age, came to be conceived
their thirteenth son,
the one who came to be my progenitor.
The years passed and my father, now adult,
was dating my future mother, led calm
and peaceful one life.
They loved each other, but couldn’t think
of getting married so soon.
They had to settle for life first.
Then the Second War broke out,
and he saw his companions going to fight.
But married people were exempt,
he went to the bank and got a loan,
and mom’s father helped him
with such an extreme goodwill.
They were quickly married,
and, in a while, I arrived in this world,
firstling of a much-loved union.
We are children of war,
father, by the end of one;
me, by the beginning of another.