The bicycle of my great-grandfather Italo Bartolini

The bicycle of my great-grandfather Italo Bartolini

Sunday, a few weeks ago.
I was having lunch with my cousin, at the home of my paternal grandmother.

Just eaten, we head to the attic.
My cousin wants to put the new switches for the lights.

The darkness appears and then goes away.

I remain alone in the dark, between dust and objects of one hundred years old.

What a strange atmosphere.
It might seem like the attic of a house in a horror movie or video game
like “Alone In The Dark“.
The first, of course.

But there are objects.
Items that belonged to someone who came before him.
Someone in some way by which now you exist.
The sun filters through a few holes here and there, illuminating the same … everything.

Here comes the light!
And it shows new things every time.
As the dark makes you think.

A bicycle appears.
I didn’t see her.

We are me, her and the silence.

A voice from the floors below.
I answer and I go closer to her.

It ‘s very old, it’s all covered.
Nevertheless, I watch it, and I think it’s still working
That is wonderful.

Hours go by.
I ask my grandmother who is the owner of that bike.

I thought it was her bicycle or my grandfather’s bicycle, her husband and instead is older.
It’s his father bicycle, my great-grandfather Italo Bartolini.

With a few words brings up a movie in my mind.
She tells me how he always carried her with that bike, there was a seat on purpose.

It ‘only a moment, but it illustrates entire lives.
Lifes that come before your life.
Lifes you’ve never seen.
Lifes that are also your life.

So much has happened, how many things he sees.
How many roads will have traveled.

Streets of a more difficult time, but also easier.

Who knows how it was…

Some things change, others never change.
And to understand them, we should live them all.

Maybe it is really so.