When To Shave Before Waxing

THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES

There, on the hill land is generous.

If you look from a distance looks like a small white shell immersed in a sea of \u200b\u200balfalfa.

Sola.

no need of anything around.

I go walking, careful to avoid the stones on the path beaten only by the shoes of the peasants.

I look at you.

I walk.

're closer.

Watching you is magical, like something out of a book of memories.

A cottage on two floors, small.

front of the door, a porch, jasmine climbs the wall and overpowering smells all around.

I feel another, in another time, change of name.

The first thing to throw away their shoes to walk barefoot and feel your roots.

keys in the lock are the creaking door, a cool breeze from the inside out.

The cold loneliness.

The windows are closed, it's hot outside, inside in winter.

weep alone.

I will scald.

the wooden staircase to the right is old and shabby, the rusty stove, a few dishes in the cupboard and the small white wooden table with a clear pitcher of brass.

The pitcher for the well. The

stone sink.

The wicker chairs badly by his grandfather.

"Grandpa ...

dressed big.

Pants always brown, strong fabric, frayed at the bottom for too rub on the ground.

boots pies, always dusty.

The checked shirt.

He sat in the cool of the wisteria in front of the house with a piece of bread, took out his knife and cut the food and told ...

story of a life of hunger so fierce, of war lived on his shoulders.

and laughed ...

His wrinkles surrounding the smile.

mouth full of words and poor teeth.

I inside, I cried.

I looked at him and thought you might be the last time I saw him. "

But each day passes.

the morning I get up at dawn, go down to the kitchen and I make the coffee.

even smell the fragrance of the beverage cover the campaign.

The Birds singing crazy, flying close to the ground and chase each other in the sky.

not even look like the same world.

I did not even seem the same.

With her nightgown cotton embroidered by her grandmother, the blue cup in hand, I sit under the wisteria.

nothing I feel immense.

There, the noise is deafening hiss like magic that weave around.

I lose consciousness, purify me, alive.

Every time is a miracle I can see, hear this.

waiting to see, to hear.

to continue to love me.

E 'here.

in this house.

Created by hungry hands.

Small, but whispering memories of those we are born, lived and died.

This is the place to go.

When I just want me and nobody else.

Giulia