It has been some years I haven't been back to my 'old places'_ when I return- I wish it at the earliest- I will go to my ancestral home that is now so much 'alone' …but still on that charming land adjacent to the old railroad station _ a pistol shot from the Mediterranean sea, that so many times I have run to jump into the ocean.
I will remain there an indefinite time…always indefinite and insensible…who can measure it?
And maybe I'll see the leaves of the chestnut and lemon trees of the old garden _ rock in the summer wind _the ancient pomegranate tree with its red fruits.
I will hold, clenched in my hands, the acorns picked up at the foot of the oak tree _
I shall remain gazing at the sea, that aging sea of my childhood, that in living its own life…I know that, in the long wait _ is no longer the same sea of my earlier days.
I shall see in the house, the old furniture, the old things, the old rooms and their own silence that we left unattended that day we left in tears and hopes.
And _ All will lead me in a trip back in time through landscapes and people_ live remembrances of stories and sights.
My mother, a sad countenance of coastal woman, introverted and taciturn, would recount with sparse words_ her childhood's facts and happenings.
Her stories almost always had, as protagonists, female figures of her land _ relived later in our lives, having so become unforgettable creatures.
All her memories introduced her children into a universe chock full of mysteries_ a woman able of giving of herself _ and loving in silence and to put up with the worries of our future.
I always thought that, despite her fragility, she was a courageous and determined woman _ protected in the circle of the best values of life.
Every time I feel tired and discouraged, it is so sweet to have the knowledge that these memories still exist, that they live to sustain us, and to help in silence, to cancel out the weariness of the soul.