Saturday evening. The sun is slowly setting on the fields at the outskirts of my hometown. There is a warm yellow light at the horizon. The same colour and light in spring as well as autumn as if the season would be unsure as to which direction to take.
I stay at a friend place just outside the old centre. It is quiet here and I can hear men talking outside the bar down the corner. I imagine them standing just outside the door of of the bar. A glass of prosecco in their hand. The clear colour of the white wine reflecting the sunset sunlight. They talk of other people’s lives: a friend is no longer live with his wife, another is turning soon 50, they compare eachothers white hairs and laugh about it. I hear the cling of glasses of a toast: ‘to us’, they say.
Tonight I will do the same when I will be at dinner with some old friends. We will talk about men and women who are not in the room, will recall the
memories that hold our friendship together, We will compares lives and the choices we have made. The same ritual that takes place every time I come back where I was born and where most of my childhood friends live. Maybe is not a coincidence that I entered today the tiny bookshop next to Piazza del Duomo and Proust’s Recherche.