I woke up early with a little headache, perhaps caused by the penetrating smell of chocolate tobacco from his pipe.
I almost felt that deep voice that came out from under his mustache as if he were here, on the other side of the door.
When I opened my eyes I was in the wrong place, there was not a library that covered the walls of my bedroom from floor to ceiling, and my brother did not sleep in the next bed.
There were no polished parquet floors, just the cold tiles of my house, and from the window you could not see the sea in the distance.
But even so I almost thought I saw those green armchairs in the living room, and the terrace with my mother's plants, between the half-closed Venetian curtains, the dining table and on the wall that picture where there were some tables on the street of a maybe nocturnal Paris.
There was not my mom dresser, with the mirror, the Spanish dancers, the wooden little chinesse figurines, and the Russian doll, nor my toy barrel, nor the drawing of the hallway's horses.
The Zippo, the tobacco packages, the cigarettes and the pipes that I liked so much were not there
My old man was not in one of those green armchairs, with gray hair and a black mustache listening to Italian music on the turntable that rested on the sideboard, to the right of the phone and the two wooden herons. I was not there, although I woke up thinking yes.
But no, it was not today either ...
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