my father tells about a time
when the children and the old ones use to cut the apples into thin slices
so to dry them put them away and save them,
for the harsh winter to come
my father claims that the old saying
" everything was better in the good old days"
it is not true
back then you would wait tediously
wait for the summer to arrive
so it was worse back then
it was much worse
and yet
at least you knew where you stood
and right there you would rest firm,
you would live sinking among the clods of mud
and you would irrigated that soil with smiles and tears
mixed with the anxiety of knowing if the good harvest will arrive or not
and then you would celebrate with a big feast
and there you stood
on a single clod of mud
you would feel your own birth and death with every round of seasons
and you would breath life all the way, deeply and clean
no,
no it wasn't better back then
and yet
now, my father says
I would give anything ,
all this ephemeral alleged progress, all the gold in the world,
to taste a single slice of that apple
cut with the wisdom and the love of a grandfather
and with the joy and the lightheart of a child
just a thin slice apple
just a thin slice of true
life
Marco Bo
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