I was born on Good Friday. I can not be haunted, I assured my mother. Not by wizards and sorcerers. But do not serve colored potions and concoctions to chain a mind. Some prisons have opened the gates. Large windows overlooking the distant worlds to see and do not touch, as if they were bare wires of an electrical connection. Others have the taste of chocolate.
I've heard a lot about freedom. They spoke of the songs of the seventies. Emerged from the pages of a literature that has interwoven stories about the streets and deluded generations of dreamers without a passport. He spoke of my cousin leaving for India in search of a foreign spirituality.
I saw painted on t-shirts. Drawn to the bright background of a canvas without an author.
I learned from my grandfather's independence. He always said that if he ate a peach off the tree, alone, in a sunny afternoon, it was not summer. A result, his freedom. As the Sunday of my thirteen years. As an afternoon spent with Clara.
Sparkling Criminal Romagna, riding his legendary 193 horsepower, Clara is a longtime friend of my days in the sun.
We Milano Marittima, the heart of the glamorous Riviera. For years I walked in that living room that smells of sea and perfumes. A blonde on top of the heel leads to walk the last fragrance by Kenzo. The man with green eyes is certainly Azzaro. Roccobarocco evaporates from the wrists of a girl with long dark hair and Clarins surrounds the neck of an old lady who feels his thirties. Clara and I are in the window, sitting at a coffee in the company of two drinks a toast to her birthday. Beside us, the trunk of an old pine penetrates the ceiling and leaves as large outdoor umbrella evergreen needles that protect the voice of nature.
Clara has always been the trusted custodian of my deepest secrets and authentic stir up all of my dreams. As we file past mouths silicon in alligator shoes and men, their faces drawn, we find the cards and we are confident to the last thought drinking French wine. At the table, a pair of glasses while you empty the ashtray vice forgives, accepting one after the other ones from that time did not smoke cigarettes. Let us from laughter to tears that fall like little girls playing back and tears to laughter, while pensioners take a walk with her hair dyed the opportunism of twentysomethings asunder and one after the other go see my old classmates more and more fat and better clothes. The hours pass us back on our ramblings part of the serenity that we carry with us in the years of catamarans off when the tan is never enough. These were the years of the sand in the pages of a book exam.
Our words fade as the finale of a music note. The wine is finished. The time available to us expired. You must return to his child. While I go back into the Easter egg, but just look at my face to know that I would have never wanted to enter.
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