-is a beautiful day begins with a
beat.
eyelashes open and before the eyes this show-F. Renga
1945
The snow had fallen overnight. Silent.
is curious how one can understand that it snows by the absence of noise and glare especially the dim light of street lamps on the road. With this thought
Ninin got out of bed, walked on the floor of red tiles, peered through the cracks of the blinds was snowing. A confirmation of its dumb question, or rather the suspicion that the thought just crossed the alarm.
All the frost went along the ankles, making them remember that he was barefoot. He returned in bed hugging her knees close to the heart.
That morning he had the taste of burnt wood in the stove, accompanied by the murmur of the water in the kettle for tea.
The trolley would not have passed.
Ninin looked at the tree decorated with cinnamon biscuits and mandarins, one could feel the aroma of spices and citrus, evoking warm lands, where the sun linger in the lapping sea, far away places and foreign Luigi told his grandson that Tripoli had been a prisoner of the British.
eye fell on the package wrapped in plain brown paper, gloves that had knitted during the long autumn evenings, to reciprocate the kind gesture of the inspector of finance who had brought oranges and tangerines from the south.
Yeah, but with the trolley that snow would not come, leaving the weight of absence as footprints in the snow, the chiaroscuro of a life that sought to make the gaps.
Ninin hands white and slender fingers to fill the papers and stamps, to make and remake the accounts of a small family factory, her hair, as we agreed, that melted only in the evening, in the presence of a faded picture of Madonna dressed in blue, the only one allowed to see those years being mature and then coming to fade-assertion in a grieving already tacked nell'orlo of another, so that the black was the color of time. Close
in a long coat, went to the nearby shop, down the road, looked like a cricket, slender arms as legs to carry shopping bags, and the footprints in the snow.
Riposte supplies in the cupboard, and looked up the fire a lock of hair that had slipped dall'acconciatura spiteful.
A large gray cat was perched in the window fading the glass with your breath.
kept snowing.
Mezzogiorno was announced by the slow scan of twelve strokes.
in doorways and courtyards are shoveling snow.
Ninin stirring the spoon in the pot and gazed absently out the window, it had stopped snowing, now a sky as pale lavender pregnant weighed the mountains and white expanses of the countryside.
She measured the waiting time in an equation, hands clasped hands in hands and catty to accompany everyday actions.
The quiet around the large dining table, now too big. Now that the children of his brother had become large, that they had started. And time was left as a remnant in an hourglass.
fade like a lily in front of an altar of days waiting for a letter, a step family, a familiar voice that made her blush only rejoice.
So they were the years of hopes of embroideries and laces closed in the old wardrobe, too, to wait.
The hands of the tower raised his arms exultantly as, ten minutes to fourteen, the bell of evening. He went
Ninin with their heads covered by black scarf that really seemed a cricket on the road leading into the church.
The same route in reverse.
The house is shrouded in darkness, already the first street lamps throw bright light in the glare of the snow.
Twenty minutes at five o'clock hour hands seemed to give up arms of a scarecrow left in the fields.
Letters never sent, unspoken words.
A ringing suddenly awakened the interest of Ninin, had swept the snow from the streets, the noise was announcing the trolleybus.
grabbed a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, looked in the mirror that the hair was in order, nell'acconciatura severe. Expectations, time a letter of steps in the carousel of emotions he felt the blow of the clapper , which he called an urgent, all the delay and was quickly under the weight of the hand that struck against the door.
Ninin was opening the door in sickle bright light coming from lamps, was the inspector of finance, which controlled the deposition of sulfur.
He apologized for the hour, for the delay, for the snow.
signatures affixed to the register. He smiled.
Ninin asked him to wait, went into the kitchen, picked up the package with the gloves and went out.
stretched his hands in the gift that touched his.
few words.
They walked to the door, the shadow he touched her cheek with a kiss.
Ninin stood with his hand on his cheek, as if a fever that burns in the days ahead would only touch the wound like a hug.
He heard the sound of the trolley back in town and that while the rim of the black dress gathered flakes of snow brought the basket with the wood near the stove, where now the gray cat dozing.
A bright light adorned the window and the kitchen looked like one of those crystal balls that if they drop a shaken snow globe on a landscape naive.
The wait hours had left the pitch at the time of application, pressing, which faced the heart, the lips.
and turns her head in the evening, a beautiful day. Very nice.
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