(Image and copyright of Marianna Zampieri, published with the kind permission of the author).
Years ago, my grandmother adoptive, without a word, in the middle of a meal left the room. As always I followed her.
She closed the door behind me and took my arm, walked through the house, arrived on the veranda. Here were her cats, mother and daughter embraced in the warm embrace of the sun.
They were there together and this was their everything. We stood looking at them in silence, each with his thoughts, without speaking, strangers in the world.
She smiled quietly to herself, crouched on sore knees and hands gnarled lived and stroked.
He got up groaning, my arm shooting and with our mute and mutual ritual the
I accompanied her armchair worn by time.
My wrinkles are myself, he said, and I like them, I define myself.
He handed her the cigarettes and ashtrays.
He took one and began to ciancicare with sandy fingers, I saw his eyes trying to find the right words, measured, without waste, under the tortoiseshell frames.
The long he twisted it between his fingers. Then, lit it, and with the cigarette between his lips, he said:
“One day you will feel the need for someone to take you by the arm and leading you into his world, in your world, the world of cats”
With silence or with short, measured gestures, respect and well-guarded affection and not wasted.
He was right, as always.
An arm to lean on, a paw showing you the way, a soul that has been forged in a crucible similar to yours, a common feeling and a sense of belonging without possession and free.
A look me show you where is home, your being, that shows you the gate closed and that only he or she knows and beyond, its territory.
That we, or that only some of us can glimpse in a fleeting moment and immortalize it for us.
She or he, looking at us, waiting for us, shows us the impossible.
“Come with me.
Let me be your eyes and look at the world through my eyes.
And trust in me”