December
and it was snowing
I was dozing on the couch
eyes closed, the countryside was quiet,
asleep
In the background I could hear the voice of the journalist
on TV introducing the games of the day
outside in the yard the dogs were barking to the countryside
and then
the squeaking of my father's Sunday leather shoes.
Dad would put the bottle of grappa back in its place in the
living room cupboard
with that Sunday coffee fix as a prize, he would settle
the hard working week on the assembly line
a little medicine for his heart sipping that magic potion of coffee with grappa spirit bless
resting after the Sunday Lunch,
sleeves of his shirt rolled up and tie loose
the jacket was already back in the wardrobe
before putting the bottle back he would read the label once again,
smooth glass, wrinkled hands,
small cuts along his fingers and nails
scars of cold and hard work, grey factory suburban sky
he would then removed the cap again
and pour another tear of grappa into the same little cup
just one more tear!
and then slowly he would
deeply inhale that intense mestizo scent
coffee, sugar, alcohol, grapes, wood smoke, steam from the stove
and leather
and he would breath in again and say
"years go by so fast
one day you are a crystal flower
and the next your are an old rugged nest
that's life, sometimes everyone deserves a little rest...."
I would perceive that perfume and, eyes closed, I could see that flower
and I could feel that soft nest embrace...
back then life was hars and grey
but on Sundays everything perfect and bright
the dogs barking outside to the smells of the countryside
the good heat of the stove and the squeaking of my father's leather shoes.............
before leaving again for the suburbs of the world
I would give anything I have to be there once once again
crystal flower in a rugged nest

Marco Bo