A year of Summer

I feel a little bit confused. This text should go under the "confused words or thoughts" category, if there was one.

One of the sweetest memory of Summer spent in Italy I have, is that feeling of indulgence, belonging to very moment when the sun starts to go down.
Summer is an awfully long time, a the long-winded speech of a Catholic priest on the day of someone's funeral. Every breath takes hours to be taken, leaving your chest hurting.
Summer evenings are a history of healing, when the passions burnt rapidly during the day, find themselves meaningless in the warm air of the crepuscolo. Every evening is the "Sabato del villaggio", to say it in Leopardi's word - where the hope for the forthcoming day is replaced by the hope for the night. The hope that the evening first, and the night then, could bring some peace to our tired body.

I used to walk around in the house. The lights off (nobody feels the need to turn on the lights during summer evenings in Italy when your day has been so full of blinding light). I used to walk barefoot, meeting by chance mum, walking slowly, aching, complaining about the temperatures and about her heavy legs. She was kind. She still is. Happy when she had the opportunity to talk to me. Most of the time, she talked about everything coming to her mind. About nothing. I never hugged her enough. I've never understood how lucky I was living my youth while she was still young.

We used to have dinner late. The lights off, the table sometimes lit up by the blue lights of tv screen, which nobody ever watched.

I used to go outside, on the terrace. In the garden, sometimes. Walking around. The leafs were noisy in the light breeze of Summer evenings, the dogs were complaining loudly most of the time. There were few other noises. The cars were unfrequent and the voices of people having a walk were rapidly disappearing. They walked back and forward the streets of the small industrial city in the South of Rome where we lived: that was their activity all the Summer long.

Things were simple. Never boring. They were that way. Like the bruise made by the trees, the obscurity coming down on the mountains, the temperatures lowering and the warm embrace of the evening, so full of hope for nothing. For warm hugs. For the love expected to renew itself the following day. Standing still, in a present alike its past, we were waiting for the future.