Waking up in the morning and finding out you have a blanket covering yourself, over the sheets.
Checking out that you are alone at home. Your brother is at the University, your parents are at work.
Well. In fact you are not alone.
“Goodmorning, principessa!”. Getting out of the bed while saying hi to your grandmother, that is living at your place for two months now. The sentece brings to your memory your Polish conquilina. Undoing the suitcase. Putting some Taylor Swift in repeat mode. And again. And again. Because when I’m into a song I cannot stop listening to it. The memory of a pair of green eyes, that are still resting under my eyelids. A phone call. Several messages. The same question asked. The same desire for meeting.
“I’m cooking today, grandma. I’m gonna prepare a risotto… Yes, of course, I know how to cook now! I’m an expert! Where? In Italy? Yes, the prices are kind of the same, and the products are quite similar… But they eat so much pasta… You wouldn’t believe it… They eat pasta EVERY day. Yes, yes, everyday. It’s incredible”.
Ordering some papers. Taking my computer. Looking for my headphones. Buying the bus ticket. Taking the metro. A book on my hand. Reading in Italian on silence.
Your Sicilian lab-mate texts you saying that he is about to start running the experiment. Life in Padova continues while you go on, on your way to the lessons. A connection between two points, far in distance, close in time.
Ignoring where the class is taking place. Running late. An useful subject that awakes your interest from the very begining. Feeling enthusiasm in each second. Science and writing converging at the same point. A break. A honest hug from each of my mates. The happiness of the reunion. Updates from labs and lessons. The ginger comes closer and whispers a sweet “we all missed you”. A birthday and a memory from Rome. Going out of the class and taking the metro again. A feminist conversation that lasts from Chamartín to Atocha.
Walking for some seconds. Again Taylor Swift, because when I’m into a song I simply cannot stop listening to it, and because it talks about a pair of green eyes, and about saying hello, and about getting to know someone better, and about coming back home.
Heading home. Putting on some music and fooling around while your father cooks some fish.
Having dinner. All together. A shared laugh. And another. And another. “I’m sure that in Padova you don’t laugh that much”. “We haven’t told you yet the story of the seven euros!” “Well, you know how insisting your mother can be when it comes about reclaiming something”. And laughing. And laughing. And laughing even more. And my grandmother and her “Luis, tell me if you wouldn’t love to see your sister from a little hole while living with the Polish girl and the Italian girl”.
– Well, let’s wash the dishes and I will have a shower, because I want to write for a while.
And then your brother visits you, with the music on the phone and the conversation over his lips. Because he has to tell you what he did last weekend. How nice his mates are. How cool the Philosophy book he is reading is. How much he loves Physics.
– Okay, come on, I want to write for a while.
Getting inside your bed and taking the computer. Open a new document in Microsoft Word and seeing, in the distance, the orange and slim blanket, bended, on a side of the bed.
– When I woke up this morning I thought about covering you with a blanket, because you seemed to be cold.
– I know, mum. I’m writing about it.
She murmurs an “About the blanket?” before leaving my place, without understanding.
But maybe this is it, right?
Maybe coming back home is something as simple as this.
in the morning
and finding out,
you have an
over the sheets.
Special mention to my family, who came to pick me up in the airport (family in which, of course, Victor is also included).