A tale digested a long time and finally spent in words ... I hope not too long for your passage, traveler.
Here, you're a child of seven years, you have hair falling in curls on her face brown, plump hands you, you're still not as thin as you one day, that day will be long and your hands strong, and you will count the ribs under her shirt. E 'autumn, it must be raining in recent days because the soil gives off a pungent odor, moisture moves low to the ground wire in the fog of silence.
There are trees without leaves, trees with dark and damp, trees are still green, there are thorny bushes that close the path, and you make your way bangs, a shower of droplets falling apart around you, cheeks, neck, needles that catch your sweater, you scratch the hands. Often wear that sweater, which fell an inch after the other under the knife of your grandmother, and a funny overalls, blue embroidered with a cat in front and big red buttons that secure the straps.
you've left behind the fence of the pigs, which are now quiet and indolent; remain on the bottom, towards the hut, lying in a muddy gray and deep. You've gone several times and see them eat, the trough is a channel, and the pigs eat all a mush in which each compound surplus, they will eat drowning face, hugging each other to be all head in the channel, sending slow grunts from time to time, you never know if the satisfaction, or pain. You know that pigs, if they are very hungry, did not hesitate to solicit their prey, and would not hesitate to eat as a child climb over the fence, surrounding him and biting his legs to make it fall in the mud, maybe that's why the path crosses always staying away from the fence, without touching them.
Yet you can not really to be afraid of pigs, perhaps because they have fur, and are always so lazy seem not to care about your step, look at you with blank eyes, as if you were another leaf that falls, or a robin who jumps from branch to branch. Maybe it's because you heard the rap of the gun, when it's time to kill the pig, you've never seen it, but you heard the shot and you know that for sure will have placed the barrel of a gun especially on the forehead of the animal, discharge a nail which pierces the center of the brain, only a moment, the pig does not suffer, do not feel anything, you have said. Did you participate with joy in the manufacture of sausages, mixing the dough with both hands and grasselli meat with salt and spices, you seemed the best of your buildings, that game of mixing and sink your hands into the soft ground meat, you've even tried to erect a wall, you started to model a small tower, with holes for doors and windows before you get yelled at and demolish everything you did, to return to knead into a mountain without form.
Have you seen the guts of the pig, get out of large pots steaming bags and become special sausages. The machine for sausages that finally gave him a nice shape to the mountain of useless flesh, a nice snake cylindrical, perfect, who then closed the bag of guts, and was knotted at regular intervals, many beautiful pieces just measured. Have you seen other parts of the pig to enter into other bags, other networks, many tables, each with its own dough in the center, which then entered into bags. Have you seen the legs of the pig after a few months, hanging from the ceiling of the warehouse, you seemed huge pears, or large pieces of cheese coated with pepper. Never, ever would have said that they were the legs of the pig. Have you even seen the big white bowls, where for one day and one night had gathered around the animal's blood, you saw the body hanging to drain, perfectly divided in half, as she came out from the pages of your book's most vivid sciences. You've seen it all, yet you fail to think of the pork while you eat your bread with the sausage spread, just are not able to connect the taste of salt and spices to the animal it comes from. In a sense, you feel like you eat a fruit, collected in a special garden, where the sausages are born like that, hanging from the rafters, maturing slowly in the darkness of the warehouse.
There is also a white horse over the fence of the pigs, you always seemed a bit 'crazy, and we also stay away from that fence. See the property among the small oaks that fill his space, his chest tight and ears raised. Move only the ears, like two small radar, which is running in all directions. Remains motionless for a while, and then suddenly takes a leap, a gap nervous, jumping on all fours, and then rears up, he began to gallop through the trees, no direction, rears back, and stays of the new building. Now you see it near the fence, is biting the horizontal bar, eating the last remains of bark, with those ears always running in every direction. Gray pony that you dozed off in the shadows, squinting and grinding stones toughest clogs, white horse where you have dirt in a jar of ash dust, the hair you have grown cold and your nose, you stupid horse in monto back, a new head to watch you burn, a broken head to ride horses. You're definitely waiting for something, while you walk on the carpet of leaves of the path, and smelled the smell of rotten soil that rises to fill the nostrils.
You are a terrible revulsion of those dewy cobwebs, rain, stretched between a bush and one in the middle of the path, you get caught you feel the spider's web that spreads to your head and you touches the cheek, you cover the eyes, think of the spider that has manufactured, you see huge, hidden in a darker hole in the bushes while you tear the web and try to wriggle. Lanci also some urletto of disgust, and the horse suddenly turns to look, while the pigs raised her head, without much interest. You're certainly waiting for the father, you're out of the house in silence, avoiding puddles until the beginning of the forest, you know that my father will be looking for you right there, between the pigsty and the horse, while kicking the leaves and you walk among the juniper bushes. Do not have the right age to chase too many thoughts, you have only seven years, and at the bottom of your mind is free from worries.
anxiety hits you like an insect bite, so you feel that you will die, but then deflates and stops hurting, something else grabs your attention, you're already elsewhere, I remain a red mark where you've had one bite, you look at it from time to time, do you remember the insect, but you seem to have point someone else. Of course you get out of the house in an agony, have you seen my mother since running last night, you heard your grandfather, who is ill, you heard your grandmother who was crying on the other side of the phone, even if the receiver ce 'was the mother, but her sobs were so loud that you hear them so to speak from a distance. Now the anguish you have already left, sometimes you forget everything, then you find yourself thinking about your grandfather, do not you know why you have come to mind, and a bit of anxiety begins again prodded her belly.
There is a cowhide rug in the house of your grandfather, a corner of the rug is balding, a stain and gray uniform. Sitting on that carpet, or on their knees, often you have watched your grandfather from the bottom up, a true giant, and you scold strong, the vest costoline from which protruded tufts of white hair, or as you explained how to assemble the pieces your meccano. You've watched countless times to smoke a pipe near the window, and as many times you went to open his box of hidden tobacco to suck the smell so good and sharp, you'd say that to be your favorite smell, if it had not happened to the flushing of petrol sniffing, in a few trips when you stop to refuel.
One day, the sea, your grandfather took without saying anything your yellow bucket, took it away to the rocks, saw over and broke it in a crack between the rocks. Every now and then check again saw his white head with an opening, and at last you have seen resurgence with the bucket hanging from a hand, apparently full and heavy. E 'come in front of you and has placed the bucket on the ground, you have you looked inside, and it was a swarm of crabs dark clashed against each other, constantly trying to climb over the smooth walls of the bucket. Your grandfather then put her hand into the bucket to get a bigger crab, was rummaging in a while and then you saw him withdraw his hand shooting pool of blood, had a long cut on his thumb, and the blood dripped on the wrist and arm mixed with sand.
suddenly comes to mind a scene you've seen recently. They killed a lamb at home, just up the road in front of the door where you went to go kick the ball. Have you seen the animal pour a side in a plot of grass. Her belly swelled and deflated in an unnatural way, did you get to his head, he cut off a red throat, and blood flowed slowly there, spreading around the head, that darkened in a puddle in the grass and were careful to stay away. The lamb was trying to bleat, but the that came out was just an indefinable sound, as if the throat of the beast, there was another animal, smaller, a little monster with a voice hoarse croak, away from the bottom of the gorge. Her eyes were open, and the warmth of her body you invested. Slowly the earth has begun to absorb the puddle, and lamb's eyes narrow into slits fine, without making any more noise.
You heard a terrible burden on you recline fully, crushed to the ground, allowing us to look away, to move a step, and even to breathe. And 'only lasted a few seconds, but remember that feeling now that you invest in new, even if they know how to make memories, only laterally.
Are you there, on the edge of the path with the tip of your shoes soggy dampness of the forest, his eyes fixed on the leaves, please review where the lamb and cut his throat, like a huge opening, which could out enough blood to getting your feet wet, you feel that your throat starts to open, as you move your hands to bring you, can you imagine a blade penetrates. You have waited so long, and finally feel that my father calls you, the sound of his feet near the pigsty. Runs towards him, feeling that your throat is still intact, with all that weight she shut you in the stomach. He takes you in his arms, and you can finally bury the nose in the fluff shirt, feeling her tight, you need to sniff sniff.
How's Grandpa? Inquire when you call on the ground. He takes you back in my arms. My grandfather is dead. He says without a particular tone, all in one breath, but you feel that tightens its grip, or maybe you are that you have become a dead weight. Now that something in your belly grows inside you, filling your lungs, arms, head, carries the blood on the tip of the ears, out of the mouth is not true. It 's all you have to say, is everything, put the shirt in the nose and repeat to her. It is not true.
