Another last day of Home

The young “Old men” at the counter talk about Milan and keep saying “we”: - Did you see what WE did with that goal?

My grandfather, a fisherman for 60 years in his seaside village, one of those villages affected by the industrial scandal, shares the background stories that can’t be read in the newspapers: 17 months without being able to catch anything, there’s a crisis among the fishermen.

In the old town, the houses are built close together. There is no greenery when I look south, but I imagine that the men of that time did not need it since they already worked all day in the countryside.
Some “historic” sidewalks are a relative necessity. If one person passes by, there is enough space, and if by chance they are accompanied, they can always walk in single file.
Other sidewalks, on the other hand, are treated for some reason as an extension of the home. One can tell because women have learned to sweep their own section in front of the door: it is part of their domestic cleaning routine.
I remembered the church I attended as a child as being larger. Now, however, I notice that it only has a flat facade, just higher than the neighboring roofs, enough to look real but without a continuation behind it: that is a void to be filled with imagination. Those roofs probably never dreamed of being above anything more than a ground floor.
Town’s squares have something that feels new and everything else that feels old.

I see lizards down the street: they are small but they’re there. I hadn't seen one since I left.

The family car is ageing inexorably, losing a piece at a time.

I try to stock up on what I might need, collecting sunsets, hugs and greetings.