Agosto '94

Cracks are everywhere. The signs of time mark the streets and walls.
The folds in the asphalt make the leather seats of the FIAT 127 vibrate, on which we, children, melt.

We go to the sea with our aunt who tells us about Polyphemus and Ulysses
while we, little ones, eat sesame breadsticks.
And she explains the "faraglioni" to us.
I really like the Cyclopes.

Let's go dive in, I'll put on the sunscreen later.
We are little colored dots looking for some relief and company.

I put the moccasins out to dry in the sun between swims.
I've been told that seawater is good, it revitalizes them.

The skin is warm, and I feel a strong itch from the salt under my shirt.
But we're going back to nonna's house, and there, maybe, I'll take a shower before dinner.

The house is safe from evils and there's a scent mixed between fragrances and hope.
Nonno plays cards by himself and the bell tower rings at 17:00: it's snack time.
I miss mamma.

We go down to the garden to play while grandma roasts the artichokes.
We don't need anything else, leave us here to play all summer long, we'll eat later.

When papà arrives, we go fishing on the pier with new lines, worms, and many colorful floats.
We look for an excuse to be in front of the sea at night.

We're going to Palermo, on the other side. The road is long and it's hot.
Maybe we'll stop for a sandwich somewhere, or we'll eat when we get there, come on.
Pier and I keep asking: when will we get there?

Signora mia, with this heat, it's good to be outside.
But be careful with the children, as they drive like madmen here.
And you, kids, try to stay in the shade.

I know how good they are, but you can't touch them with bare hands.
Dad tells me to try taking a sip of red wine after biting into one.

The scent of brushwood and the sound of cicadas envelop me, as I breathe in deeply the taste of summer.
I have to manage to carry that flavor inside me throughout the winter.