and 'here on Sunday afternoon in North London. out the time and 'reconciled in hand and I fight with my immobility. I can not bend the forefinger of his left hand and foot 'band for good after the minor accident at home. I need air and I need to listen to the sounds of this Sunday, I need riconnetermi with the outside world, have been days of physical distress and I need to look away from my body and find a balance with my surroundings . and julian 'release and the house' alone, with me inside. Then I open the white door leading to garden, the narrow front of which always leaves julian bags full of things like if that door was there not to be opened. but it 's my door, he has another that leads into the garden, large and modern. this is old and white and narrow 'and my time with the calm that I have and I try, I remove her things and opened the door to peace in the garden. breath. breath and listening and it seems to me that all repurchases and color sense. There are the sounds of Sunday outside the white door. There are birds chirping and children playing football nearby. a dog that barks and a rooster who sings every now and then. I show the kids that play on Sundays in the past, when I lived in a condo and the boys gathered in the backyard to play or sometimes, in a pitch furthest I could see from the balcony of the house. Sunday is the time to stop especially in the afternoon when the long Sunday lunch was over and so the various cleaning preparations for dinner but were still far apart. I loved to sit on the balcony and watch the calm, listen to the movement never intrusive, never inappropriate. and then they came in the midst of the calm, my grandparents with their happiness with their embraces, with their lives that I admired as one admires the perfect shot. I was happy But not know. I was just happy, no questions asked.
at times like these moments when the sounds of the past come back, I wonder when is 'the past' has become the past? and why? where are the voices of that past, where are the laughs, where are those people who saw each day and I thought I would see for the rest of my life over and over. where 'the alley of the house and the gate of the palace. the mailbox, lift the green. the abandoned vineyards and the pitch of the pine forest. the noisy machine of my grandfather and my grandmother always full of bags. where the balcony facing the sea and into the Vesuvius. the lights of Sorrento and Capri. where 'Mrs. guild on the ground floor where everyone went for coffee. there was no time to be small, this was only filled with people who suddenly found I no longer around me. I have not heard more noises. like when someone turns off the radio so all of a sudden my present and 'become the past.
start shivering hours outside the door and white and 'almost evening. the voices and sounds of the past are more and more feeble, and I return to my mind, my injured foot and dinner to prepare. the pitch is empty and my grandparents share in the car. not 'the most sun.
