di Mattia Baldi
A wall made of fine plasterboard separates my house from that of my grandparents. A stupid wall, this had been for many years, badly made and that made the voices pass between the two houses. How many times have I detested it because it took away my privacy: every thing said, every time I passed by there it was that he was ready to bounce everything next to him and in less than no time grandmother stuck with everything, as always. Stupid wall, a few extra layers, a few small tips and it could have guaranteed me a little privacy. It had also been redone several times due to renovations but no one had ever been able to do it properly, the stupid wall had never been able to block the passage of voices.
But perhaps it was a sign of destiny: that wall, that very hated wall, is now the only connection with my grandparents. Every day dad goes around Cilento, is in contact with many people and our preventive quarantine is "reset" every day, preventing all of us from meeting our grandparents to protect them from any occasion of infection.
Now only that wall remains to make us feel close.
Each day allows my greeting to reach them and to pass on their voices and their recommendations. The voice of my grandmother who had been cheerful and cunning for so long is now a voice broken and muffled by fear. Afraid of the virus? Probably, fear that this moment will never pass, of not being able to invite us to Sunday lunch as usual.
A voice that is now so dim that not even God can hear it. The stupid questions of the past, the recurring questions of the past are serious, worried questions, once he asked me if I had eaten or if I was going to sleep, even if it was five in the afternoon, now no more. He asks me to pray for her, to help her voice reach up there.
From the “Quarantine Diary” section
- The rush of time
- The time of apples
- When will all this end?
- Limbo: everything stopped, everyone with bated breath ...
- #we stay at home