I think about the green field set in the tiny valley between high, steep, prosperous mountains.
The place where the whole family grew: grandparents, uncles and aunts, parents, daughters and sons.
The place that reunites everybody in September, when it’s time to pick apples
and the operative hands are covered of dust, of scratches, of sweat
and the ears are full of bird twitters, of motor rumbling, of small talk,
and the throat is dry.
The little children climb the ladder, pick some apples, break the stalk and start again
The young dudes climb the ladder, pick some apples and look at the cyclists on the faraway street
The adults climb the ladder and try to pick as many apples as they can
The elderly stay on the ground and empty the colored, aged, crumbling baskets that are endangering the brief existence of the golden fruits.
The long invertebrate worm in the yellow apple on the ground is thrown in the air with his new comfortable house
landing unexpectedly on the shirt of the fastest climber.
The innocuous apple war is ceased from the hands of the clock to arrive at 12pm
It means it’s time to leave the roasting hot and go in the shaded, cool kitchen
where all the chairs are set around the table,
where everybody sits with impatient hunger to eat the filling and nourishing pasta with ragu’.