I'm sitting on a concrete bench overlooking the garden. The others, all at home to decide what to prepare for dinner. What
balls.
The dusk is slowly descending, and it's great. The warm sun sets and the fresh air passes the leaves of apricot, bringing the pungent smell of the campaign.
I look at the sun through the leaves of the tree, I look at the uncultivated countryside over the fence.
summer without the sea.
Sometimes at night when I'm on the roof of the house and pulls a bit 'you can smell the salty breeze and for a moment you can almost be close to the beach.
remember summers past. The
remember.
remember the months spent in this sea six years ago. I remember shells and water. I remember warm beaches and card games. I remember I turned to look at who made me smile distracted from my reading.
The wind still blows.
remember Turin.
have time.
have time and do tourists to the ground and completely foreign.
The joy of simplicity and choose together the magnets on my fridge.
The beauty in taking pictures and see him smile.
And the wind is blowing again.
I need water. I'm far away from water too long. I need the salt to the skin. I need the sea at seven in the evening when there's hardly anyone, and the sun is going down.
He knew the sea.
smell of sand, salt and cream after sun gave me the head. Several days have passed and yet I feel it.
The room was stuffy and hot in the shadows as crystallized.
"What?"
"nothing"
"are you sad?" And when
same pronunciation as the words I am reminded of "The Lover" by Marguerite Duras
'A little, "I reply. Infinitely
I should say.
"... Years and years after the war, after marriage, children, divorce, books, came to Paris ...
had telephoned her.'s Me. She had recognized the voice. He told her: I just wanted to hear your voice. She said, hello, I am.
... And then seemed to have no more to say. But then he had told them. He had said it was like before that he still loved her, that he could never stop loving her, who would love her to death. "
Photo: Golf rice not yet ripe. Vercelli
