Fragments

Endless the images flow, dragged from a hand that stops on a child’s eyes… eyes that are yours, those of your mother, those of your grandfather..

Pasted fragments of life that bring you back to the essence, to your ancestral.

And you hear a voice, that calls you from the other room, the door is locked and you can’t open it.

You smell the stink of the stable, which remains on your clothes… old clothes worn to be soiled.

You smell the good shent of a dinner, had on a balcony at the seaside, escallops with chips and fresh tomatoes,  that fill hundreds of full bottles in the barrels, on the fire.

You see the hide-and-seek game in the huge house, an empty house and the first heartbeat for a mischievous eye on some rickety bedsprings..

You feel the sun that so wide rises from the sea, on a sleepless night and your hand in your father’s one, he is young and cool, jester of your thousands theatrical parties..

The same emotions, the same weirdness, the same fear, covered only by a body, changing…

And the train whistles, whistles and squeals and more strongly your sight stops over that child’s arm, which strongly holds his brother’s shoulder.