Spring touches me, as someone who has not seen for years and spring back from a country in the winter following the summer without an intermediate stage, without myths in those days where your body is preparing for the bitter cold, or the infernal heat. Spring makes me the effect of the trees, and is reborn with the flowers and then leaves, which darken from pale green and then the pruned branches are long and full of fans new nature. Spring comes when I walk from my house to my grandparents' house. Those walls that were painted green, and in my mind that I still am, only now are red, a nice bright orange color of red by the end of Via Avigliana when I look up from the sun to rise and invests it with light.
I have a link with the old house of sweat, hard work and family tragedies. A link is now healthy and clean cows grudges, that gives me pictures of a girl playing in the garden alone, while all the major are taken from the work to be done with plants and garden when the summer comes. It is to prune the roses and pick tomatoes, to remove the greenhouse of his grandfather, to wait for the sunset and give drink to all plants in pots that are in bloom and smell strong.
Part of the garden of the old house, on the one hand, it is a nice corner to be discovered. The plot of ground in center diamond-shaped stuffed with roses, lilies, daffodils, and a small stone path goes all around us. And my head was spinning when I was running strong and I own circle up and down the bed. The grandmother told me to stop crying, I would fall on the stones, then walked slowly, and then resume running when she was not looking. That was my favorite corner of the garden, always in the shade in the afternoon, a little 'hidden from the road from the climbing rose sull'inferriata. From my room I've seen in years, the bed change shape, following the creativity of his uncles. We had a tank with a small waterfall and fish for a while ', then the cat caught them all, and the Whirlpool was inhabited only by mosquitoes. I liked the sound of water also felt out of my room, when the heat finally allowed to keep the windows open, and then seemed to live near the river, the river here that we do not have it.
I have many memories of the garden, before almost more like a garden, then changed over the years in form, but never in the atmosphere. Always precious jewel in the crown of the house that seems so simple and austere from the outside. Who is waiting for the garden wonderful, hidden, almost secret. Nice why do not flat-spotted the front as in the other villas on the road. But modest, a gift for a few guests.
Sometimes I'm sad. Of all the memories of my childhood in that house, my children will have that story. Almost as funny stories sometimes, or melancholy. Grandparents with stories of big, rough hands, who have spent their entire lives within the walls trying to change that piece of land for you to look a little like 'who left the campaign. I will take my children walking in the woods between Rivoli and Villarbasse and on the road, past the red house say, "here, by this little gate opens into a garden, not from here si vede, perchè è un giardino segreto". E racconterò loro le storie di quella bambina, che sola da quel giardino, sognava un giorno di viaggiare per il mondo...
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