PORTRAITS

I remember the pasta made in an aluminium pot, the fresh tomato sauce, the clock that beats the seconds of my childhood and the scent of my grandmother.

The smell of drawers full of old paper.

I remember the dialect sentences, the walks along tree-lined avenues and the church bells beating the hours of my summers.

I remember the long chats playing cards, revising the names of the dead, the greeting to my grandfather's picture and the prayer before going to bed.

I remember the yellow bedspread, the heavy velvet one.

I remember the stern look, but I also remember the unconditional love.

Her hands drawn by time, her teenage runs in the fields, her war and her tales of a distant life.

An indelible image in me.

My roots.

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