Inclined as I am to a chronic indolence, I should enjoy those Italian moments, by my own, by my parents-in-law, by the shadowy side of the green, while I am eating cherries.
And I do enjoy them (moments ans cherries), with a sort of intimate delay (should I say I did?), writing down disorderly sketches of my Italian journey.
A different inclination, more courageous, endured the cherry tree since 1994, when a tremendous lightning – out of a memorable storm – hit its log.
Grandpa Mario planted the cherry tree when Cristiana, first of his six grandchildren, was born. Mario, ninety years old, gently and slowly is now heading to his tree, to me and Jacopo, his great-grandchild.
Walked by his daughter, with the aid of a cane, a bit stooped and with humid blue eyes, Mario is looking at Jacopo, somehow lost in his thoughts… thoughts, we can only guess.
The cherry tree stands still and proud of his red fruits’ abundance, as a green border to the north edge of the courtyard.
Mario directs the gaze to the cherries. Instantly the tree looks back to him (the late spring gales vanish silently through its branches). They talk for a little while together, whispering to each other an intimate language, he lifts his walking stick to the closest bunch of cherries.
Then they depart from one another. We all now look at that slow motion separation, then at that void.
We have just been attending a goodbye ceremony.