17/06/2026
FISIOGNOMICA 05 — Lazzaro, the Gravedigger
Thin man.
Narrow shoulders.
Large hands, surprisingly gentle.
For nearly forty years, he was the village gravedigger.
He knew the cemetery better than anyone else.
He knew which cypress trees whistled in the north wind, which gravestones slowly sank into the earth, and which photographs faded fastest beneath the summer sun.
He was not a sad man.
Just a man accustomed to the company of silence.
Of course, the villagers never missed an opportunity to joke about his name.
Because being called **Lazzaro** and working as a gravedigger seemed like the sort of joke fate tells only once.
— With a name like that, you should be bringing people out, not putting them in.
— You're working for the wrong side.
— One successful customer and you're out of business.
Lazzaro would listen, smile faintly, and carry on with his work.
He had heard those jokes hundreds of times.
Perhaps thousands.
And he never seemed offended.
He always gave the same answer:
— If I ever come back, I'll make sure to visit every one of you.
That was usually enough to make everyone laugh.
Including him.
In the village, people simply said:
*"Lazzaro knew the names of everyone who had gone away."*
And perhaps that was why people always greeted him with a particular kind of respect when they met him on the street.
The kind reserved for someone who spends his days working at the border between memory and oblivion.
