Written by: Fab Sebastian Caleffi

Type: Feature Film

Genre: Family

Logline: Well, I believe my father spend his death in Bollywood - but I don't know where is my mother now. Mom is dead, too. It is normal, I'm no longer a child. Is it "normal"? To lose dad, to get lost mama? I'm still losing memory of my parents. But 1h ago I received the visit of Mr.Memories, a salesman. Now we are discussing the price of one more day with my mother. He would sell to me a day of my childhood. The cost of the special commemoration does not seem too hight. We agree and find myself in Milan in a huff. I spent my childhood with my parents in Milano, Italy. I'm still 50 y.o, but I'm also a teen deep in my heart. It's so hard for me to orient myself in the city after a long time. Milano is changed and I'm changed me too, of course.

- Hi, Mom - I say.

The woman walkin' on my side smiles. She's my mother, instead of today she's younger than me. But she doesn't know I'm 56 y.o, 'cause she has never seen his boy at this age. My mother is alive and I'm walkin' upstream in my past. May be it's gonna rain.

- Hi, Mom - I've just said: it's the first time in my life (and in her life) I call my mother Mom. Usually, I use a strange nickname for her: Sypi. So, I'm walking with my mother around Milano in the Sixties. I see the old cars as new cars. Mom talks with me. I stand silent: I'm afraid my voice isn't childish. The storm breaks and it is a terrible storm and we have no umbrella and we run arond under the flood and and we take refunge in a small clothing store and we are so happy, so happy. I feel is the best moment for us, my mother and me, to be mother and son. I've paid for it. Mr.Memories made a good work. Sypi (the strange nickname I use for mom in my childhood) gets me a gift: she buys for a colorful scalf knotted at my neck (may be, a redneck...) now that I'm back in Hobocken, New Jersey. Where I'm looking for the salesman to thanks him. I would like to buy another day in my life. One day with my mother after the storm. I want to ask mom a question: how to make pate without killing the goose.

It has to mean something, but I can't remember what. Dad has travelled to India before the wedding with my mother: they meet in Italy and my father got a job in Milano, where I was born. Now daddy can be in a virtual Mumbai, I live in my grandmother's state, New Jersey and my mother is probably in the wind. The answer to the old question upon the fat goose and the pate is blowin' in the wind.

I can ear her voice, but I'm not sure it's my mother's voice. I want another choice. For now, for dinner I'll indigestion pate goose: fois gras, as they say in Paris, France.

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