pink boxes of stamps My grandfather collected stamps.
When I was little, once a year, fill the sink with warm water dark brown of his house and put them all in a bathroom, to remove dust and the smell of mothballs that his grandfather put in the boxes where they kept those tin that were used once for cookies.
I will be amazed to see those tiny and delicate squares of paper that floated light and clinging to smooth edges of the ceramic. At the slightest movement there was a risk that overlapped one another, and then it was difficult to separate tub without breaking them. It was my job to prevent this happening and control them with care, separating them with the pudgy fingers as soon as they threatened to close.
Then he died, within a few days, and I have not come into his room. I just peeked and saw a corner of the bed covered with red roses. Someone had scattered in bulk, perhaps my grandmother, and I liked to think that my grandfather was all covered with flowers.
A neighbor had brought two giant gloves full of freshly baked croissants and covered with impalpable powdered sugar, one cream and jam, as if we were celebrating the arrival of spring.
In the living room of my aunts spoke softly tinker with my grandmother in her hands a handkerchief wet with tears. Could not understand. Two of them young, had made fujtina, were married on the sly. It was wartime, and these things happen. Just the year before had celebrated their golden wedding anniversary.
I think back to what he wished me every birthday or anniversary "Whatever your heart desires." This hope has accompanied me since childhood. What my heart desires ...
Like it's easy to know, Grandpa.
On the couch was my mother, but I did not want to get closer. If I did I had to comfort her and she would cry, and I would have done because I can not bear to see her cry. An aunt pushed me gently to her, as if to say stables nearby.
I approached creeping feet, with downcast eyes. I sat next to her mother and hugged me. It 'started crying immediately, as if waiting to me, to open the faucet. I tried to keep the tears in front of all those people.
She told me she was near him when he breathed his last, he said it was not just a breath, "More than a breath," he said, "a puffy, as if the body should make an effort to release and empty all the air "was accurate, he must have looked good.
The next day, at the funeral, There were a lot of guys, just to be that of an old man. And 'that my grandfather was nice. It was ironic and witty, funny jokes and was always a bit 'bad on several characteristics of my family too exuberant for its confidentiality.
Spat always with my grandma, you could see that they loved. Grandma is a great cook, a true Neapolitan cuisine, fat and stracondita. Once, in summer, we were at the family table in full force, and there was an impressive use of paper towels to absorb all the oil that flowed from the hands and mouths, "We could hang a towel on the table," he said behind a pile of crumpled paper, "so we clean it all together, what do you say? "looked at me sideways with a smile that was left after the 'stroke. We always had that smile, when you spoke to me.
When he began to feel sick I was already gone for a while. When I came home and visited him in recent times was in bed more often, more and more thin and weak. The last time I had asked the university, "I miss two exams, then I graduate," I lied to myself. "Brava" he murmured making an effort to touch my hand. I saw my grandmother smile because he could not speak for days.
When it was too late I remembered stamps, hundreds and hundreds, stored in tin boxes. "They will all be stuck together, moldy" I thought. Maybe in a little 'someone will think of selling them.
