It was just when he finally reached the rushes that he turned to look back, to the other bank.
He had rowed slowly, conserving the strength.
He had rowed forward: unbelievably his forearms fractures still limited his movements.
Schiranna’s shore was clearly visible by now.
The thick fog, that was sorrounding the shore at his arrival to the jetty, disappeared.
The sun began to warm his shoulders so that he would take away his jumper soon.
The old man looked for the passage towards the dock where, seventy years before, the perches (the gobbetto fish) pleasantly bit.
There were less reeds at that time.
There were less reeds and a friend to talk with while fishes were waiting for the lure.
They seemed to be desirous to come out from water and jump into the boat.
Fiftyfour: he remembered that, one hour and half later, as soon as he had come home, he lined up.
Fiftyfour fishes (both gobbi and lavarelli) in the kitchen’s sink.
Then his mother arrived in the kitchen tearing her hair.
She complained telling him that she was unable to clean all that fish; moreover none in the family loved eating it, him included.
So he was there to relive that day, one of his long life thirty-two thousand days.
It was the only day in which he had fished.
He was there because of the lake, the oars’s noise and the sun that was about to rise.
Then it immediately rised high in the sky to give him warmth on his shoulders…
But, first of all, he loved his mother’s expression on that faraway morning .
Hardly he drove the boat to an easier passage.
The reeds opened in front of the little wood-boat and then they closed back.
Finally he found an open section of water to the shipyard.
He tiredly looked for a dock.
He got off with calm, a lot of calm, and then he headed upward for the town.
In the square there were the church, the tobacco shop, the bar, the town hall, the pharmacy and a bench under a tree.
The day was going well, he said satisfied to himself sitting down in the shade.
Let’s rest before coming back.
He closed his eyes and suddenly he saw his smiling mother who reprimanded him for all that fishes.
A sunbeam lighted up her hairs: she was very beautiful.
Then the old man tried to get up, but he didn’t succeed.
Pietra Ligure, 2008
MAuro della Porta Raffo
(Traduzione di Roberta Colombo)