I bambini hanno una grande capacità, quella di fare magie.
Nessuno come loro sa trasformare un piccolo parco in un castello, una bicicletta in un cavallo, una mamma nella regina del mondo. E niente rimane in memory as the sites that have had this privilege, to change shape, color, texture according to the game in which they are used.
I have a house by the sea, so near the coast to see the sea just look out the window, sunning on the sand and do not require more than a hundred paces from the door.
front of the house there is a garden with a large pine tree that casts its shadow everywhere at that time was attached to the see-saw pine, and over the swing, the turn of the thicker branches, some pinned beam without art pretended a small house where no entry ever.
Beyond the garden, and perpendicular to it, there is a path surrounded by evergreen plants that leads to a larger avenue. And on that avenue, on the border between the house and the sea, surrounded by two flowering oleanders that I always see, there's the bench.
The bench has the definite article in front of him: I suspect that it is a proper name (in which case it should be written with a capital P) and that the article if it is made only to give himself a tone. I can not tell what color it had originally, nor remember its details. Now it is peeling, rotting a bit 'everywhere, and we walk over swarms of black ants, big ones, who seem to see them from the arrows to follow, Pollicino crumbs that indicate the path back home.
On the bench there is room for everyone, but not everyone likes to sit on. Oleander leaves a bit to hide 'from view, so that when you're hanging on you to fly two spans from the ground. My coach then was able to forget what does not deserve a place among the memories.
During the morning sitting on the bench always a woman with curly hair, big smile and looking a bit 'lost. Walks with a large steel nut, which sustains his steps in the same manner in which the coach maintains his thoughts. They are heavy thoughts, not enough sun loungers on the beach for them. These are the thoughts of those who have forgotten how to think, are crowded, intricate, gaseous, and seek the bench to be embrace, protect, enlighten. Some say that the lady spends hours and hours sitting there, talking to herself, to move the large smiling mouth without a partner, but I suspect that the bench talking, and the woman to respond, and I think indeed that it spied annoyed and jealous of their newfound confidence.
Around noon approaches to the bench a couple of guys. Every day I am surprised to see them, because they seem so adult, even if they have not even half my age. I think it happen because I look at them from below, through the eyes of a child who grew up fiddling around there. The boys approach hesitant, embarrassed, or maybe it's my embarrassment accomplices and know how to love. They know that the bench is their secret place, they know they can enjoy sitting up there that would not dare elsewhere, and become invisible to everyone except my parents, who grew up there on the bench. When I see a hint of envy and nostalgia comes over me: I have given my first kiss here and there I rested after a long run, there've eaten jars of nutella with friends while looking into a shooting star i wish I did not know you had.
fishermen on the bench resting after a day's work. We stop just a moment to contemplate the sun is to eat a sandwich, or rewind the lines. Leave around him a smell of salt and wind, which is only a few seconds and then is swept away, the smell of those without a home, those who are passing through, who knows only the greeting.
Some guy wrote to us that the words scratched on the soul, secretly, a little ashamed '. To do so he chipped green paint, he recorded the wood, he stole an idea. The bench is not sorry, it has become old, ugly, has lost its color, but not the ability to accept others. He knows that being able to receive means being able to accept anything, even an insult, but a pain.
seven o'clock in the evening, when the rays of sun damage truce and wants to look the day that changes, they head to the bench three small, elderly gentleman. They sit a little 'uncomfortable, making the spot light wood. One of them leans in lace with lace, as not to want to occupy too much space, for fear of disturbing, it seems that is about to fall, and it remains there, still, balanced on her pelvis and yet very delicate. Her voice is clear, child, and like a child knows the color of the sky and wonder of flight of a dragonfly. Conversano just the three women, have no need for words; poised between heaven and earth, there are few things you really need.
squat on the bench then the first inhabitants of the neighborhood, looking cat and the tail dangling in the air, her paws in front of the eyes to cover the sunlight that makes the oblique eyes, the hair soft and silky that adheres to the surface as hard as the network of a bed.
But when they want to shade refreshment, the bench offers it willingly, with the sound of crickets lull that flirt between the oleanders blooming. On the bench there is always music, just what is perceived, which is close my eyes, like dreams without borders who is about to fall asleep, to those who need dreams.
front of the bench is a lawn for more yellow than green, leading to the sea. Within minutes you can go from one bank to another, from earth to the beach, green sea water. From the bench you can see up the hill, slipping all of a sudden towards the yellow sand, and blue in the distance appear inaccessible, as the colors of the rainbow.
Get off the bench is like to go ashore from a boat: a sense of dazed and confused, the difficulty of reconciling the air and earth, spirit and matter, the step that he stumbles, the wings that make feet: I've never seen anyone shoot without hesitation on their way, no one to turn to avoid looking at it from afar as you do before departure.
There are many ways to travel, and I do not know if they are really capable of doing, but I never felt faster, more movimento, come quando sono ferma, sospesa tra il cielo e la terra, tra il verde e il blu, sulla mia panchina.
Sulla panchina di tutti.
P.S. Questo racconto è stato scritto per il concorso indetto dal blog " Leggendo leggendo " di Paola.
P.P.S. On air "L'uomo del faro" di Andrea Mirò. Avrei voluto mettere "Vite parallele" visto che ha a che vedere con le panchine... ma non l'ho trovata da nessuna parte.
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