Lovesnaps, eight
Opening the door of my mom childhood's home, memories begin to run wild and free towards me, fragment of my early summers, slowly spent capturing insects and drinking landscapes with sight.
After 15 years without, our home lets the daylight stream in like a long awaited lover's pleasure. The barrage falls, tamed. The wall smiles again, unbelieving. Each grain of dust dances madly in the limelight. Things come alive, again.
For a while my dad dims the stream with his own body. He's not romantic, but I'm sure his heart is aching like mine. This sense of abandonment is an exceptional wave of sedimented years crashing all at once, and us two just witness of the cruelty of time.
I browse those familiar 45 square meters like an archeologist. The dice of a funny calendar are frozen into 1986, dishes cry. I can see in the cupboard what films then fed my camera. Even the spiders' party has ended, every bed looks dead. Furnitures are still beautiful, soaked of tiredness and poverty. Old prints I'll bring away with us are smiling prisoners in a drawer.
How many times I played guitar here, where my grandparents one early spring night conceived my mother? How many times I still relive the summer night when I, fourteen, tasted for the first time the lips of a girl, Angela, first love, eighteen next-door neighbour, hair as blond as hay? I can clearly remember her starlit pupils, her softness; and the harsh contrast (the morning after) conveyed by the rage of my grandmother, who peeked at my sin from behind the leaves of the balcony door...
In the attic, under a decade of dust, a handmade high chair toy. The ghost of my grandfather, died suicide in his carpentry when her daughter was neither a teen, joyfully smiling at me finding something his hands did for her 50 years before.
With no slightest hesitation, the toy came down with me. Now, revarnished as new, it makes my daughter's dolls happy.
Hands to hands, Heart to hearts. Love to love.
Lovesnaps, eight
Opening the door of my mom childhood's home, memories begin to run wild and free towards me, fragment of my early summers, slowly spent capturing insects and drinking landscapes with sight.
After 15 years without, our home lets the daylight stream in like a long awaited lover's pleasure. The barrage falls, tamed. The wall smiles again, unbelieving. Each grain of dust dances madly in the limelight. Things come alive, again.
For a while my dad dims the stream with his own body. He's not romantic, but I'm sure his heart is aching like mine. This sense of abandonment is an exceptional wave of sedimented years crashing all at once, and us two just witness of the cruelty of time.
I browse those familiar 45 square meters like an archeologist. The dice of a funny calendar are frozen into 1986, dishes cry. I can see in the cupboard what films then fed my camera. Even the spiders' party has ended, every bed looks dead. Furnitures are still beautiful, soaked of tiredness and poverty. Old prints I'll bring away with us are smiling prisoners in a drawer.
How many times I played guitar here, where my grandparents one early spring night conceived my mother? How many times I still relive the summer night when I, fourteen, tasted for the first time the lips of a girl, Angela, first love, eighteen next-door neighbour, hair as blond as hay? I can clearly remember her starlit pupils, her softness; and the harsh contrast (the morning after) conveyed by the rage of my grandmother, who peeked at my sin from behind the leaves of the balcony door...
In the attic, under a decade of dust, a handmade high chair toy. The ghost of my grandfather, died suicide in his carpentry when her daughter was neither a teen, joyfully smiling at me finding something his hands did for her 50 years before.
With no slightest hesitation, the toy came down with me. Now, revarnished as new, it makes my daughter's dolls happy.
Hands to hands, Heart to hearts. Love to love.