The easiest thing for me is to talk about the core of my heart or about he stars filtering lights on the clear sky. What else could I say more true? The scientists say that a baby is born with about 75 percent of water in its body, almost the same amount found on our mother Earth. Then he is raised becoming a man then he grown old and withers. Alike the longevive apple trees, man has a tender skin in the beginning then he toughens over the years. Sometimes…
My world turns before my eyes, I am captive in a revolving door, always between yesterday and today, I am the world before Galileo Galilei, the little girl looking at the sun turning in a hole of a big bur leaf. Under my eyelids the light plays, passing through the vine leaves in our verandah, through the white laundry hanging on the wires, through improvised tents made of bedsheets, with crystal and coral castles raised above. Fairy tales run through me, growing like the porridge in the charmed pot that fulfilled the poor man’s wishes. The world is this moment and memories ripen gently, like the sour cherries in our orchard.
Sometimes life is only soap balloons hiding rainbows. The cotton candy and the shiny yo-yo balls on the circus alley. The clown whom I dislike compared to the other children. The smell of new books in libraries, tempting me to browse them discovering flowery letters and smiling princesses. The little Ida’s flowers grow in my garden, dancing their short life away, neighbors to the scent of taragon, basil and thyme. In the well where I see my face dwells a charming fish, a prince from a storybook country for which I tore from my slice of bread with sugar.
I breathe wild mint and wild flowers, freshly mowed herbs and hay. The bread is steaming on the table together with traditional apple or plum pies made from the same dough. My grandmother smiles with her warm heart singing on Christmas Eve about the three shepherds and the Bethlehem star. It smells like hot lye, homemade soap and bluing cubes for the laundry, fresh milk in the stable and corn flour cake baked in the stove.
The wood crackles and the flame plays on the whitewashed wall its merry song. The stars are too many, the sky is so heavy that the light almost brings me up completely. Why on earth it had to be so much unsung songs around my heart that I grew my own leaves without being hunted by an immortal?