In autumn afternoons whenever I have an appointment with my grandmother.
We sat on some old chairs my grandmother is from before the war. Chairs are low but very comfortable and like two giants sitting on them, some chairs I know by heart, which could recognize his eyes closed, I like to stroke the wood, and so worn and string, strong as the same time.
My grandmother weaving, making me a red jersey, said that red is my color. But I said even if it is a good color. My grandmother loves talking, but rather I would say he likes the silences, the areas where nothing is said and say everything.
My grandmother, who knows a lot about life because she has lived long, is the only person in the family that is able to comfort me. The only one this, when I speak or just when I am surrounded by silence me too soft as a breeze, this afternoon, floating in the garden of his house.
is a breeze and I believe that even blue. In the fall everything is gentle color. Chickens wander in front of us with quiet, aware that we are observing. A black cat sits next to my grandmother, looking down on the chickens.
autumn always liked me and calm. I tell my grandmother that has landed her look soft on me. Weaving endlessly asks me if something is troubling me.
- No ... but yes.
- And what does this mean, girl. Or is it no or yes. In life there can be doubt.
- It is very complicated.
- Even more to be said.
And for a long time we stayed in a quiet sleep. Do not know if it's the voice of my grandmother, or the sound made by the knitting needles, a barely perceptible sound, or the hens cacateo looking for worms on the ground.
My grandmother never told me that life was a journey of suffering. I never said that we should live in pain. My grandmother does not believe in God or marriage. Do not marry never but love is a phrase deeply that tells me every time I come to visit. Y: God? What God? God is here, pointing with his fingers thin and elegant the center of my body.
When my mother died, my grandmother was the only consolation. I stroked her forehead and cheeks with a cotton scented. I lie on the sofa in his tiny room. I prepared a chicken with wine. Then he gave me a book that was years in the old library, a heavy book and antique The Divine Comedy. It also made me a foot massage and heard me mourn my sins and my fears. Then, the next day, I took her to the cemetery. And we were cleaning the grave of one of his daughters, Aunt Anna, who I never got to know.
My grandmother is like a column, its strength is immense. But I never said. One day he gave me some letters from my father, sent from those years when he was in France in disgust went to live in a more breathable. And I would say, my grandmother, I have the impression that I am like my father, I have to go, I'm not okay, here or anywhere else. And this brings me fear and dread.
- This jersey, says suddenly my grandmother will give you energy.
- Do you think Need energy?
- Many Yes.
- Why?
- When you go, wherever it is, I want you to wear it and never forget that I love .
Then follows a long silence, like a soft autumn breeze, a silence that stuns and confuses me, I seizes the throat and I try not to mourn here, in front of my grandmother who continues to work as usual, and I look with gratitude the chickens that look at us askance. And the cat lifted a paw and it is time that my grandmother prepare a good coffee with the cake he has done for us.
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