To Piero

Padre carissimo,

You remember the letter R — how it stood in the alphabet like a man leaning on a staff, how it would not be rushed. In Florence, when I first shaped it with the chisel on the Libro di Pittura, it was still a shape before it was a sound. The serifs were the shadows under the feet of the man who did not yet walk. I drew it in the margin of the page where the ink bled slightly and the paper curled at the edges from the damp of the Arno evening. The R was not perfect then, but it was honest. It did not apologize for its weight.

In France, the letter R is softer. The French tongue lets it slip like a sigh between the teeth, almost swallowed. I hear it in the speech of the king’s men when they say rouge or rougeole — the R dissolves into the throat, as if the word itself is embarrassed to exist. I do not blame it. The French R is a letter that has learned to be polite. But I still prefer the Italian R — the one that stands firm, that is not afraid to be heard.

The hand trembles.

I have been thinking about letters as bodies lately. The R is a man with a crutch, or a laborer with a rake. The leg of the R is the spine of the man who walks with difficulty, who leans into the future. The crossbar is the weight he carries. It is not elegant. It is necessary.

You gave me my name, and the name begins with R — Leonardo. The L is a staff, the E a gate, the O a mouth open to speak, but the R is the root of it. It is the part of the name that does not bend. When I sign my name, the R is the first letter that does not apologize for its shape.

The canal outside my window is still. The water does not rush. It waits, like the R waits to be spoken.

The candle gutters.

I send you this thought, not as a scholar to a notary, but as your son to you: the letter R is the shape of endurance.

vostro figlio affettuoso