The Sea Inside
Thursday, July 17th, 2008 
A s was there every day, with his white hair, his cane and his bag of memories.
The old man was sitting on the usual bench at Villa Borghese and listened to the sea.
Yes yes, I know there is no 'the sea to Rome, but he knew that old feeling inside when the sea.
He was born in the land of the trulli, where the sound of the sea was the soundtrack of life, had figured out how to hear the sea.
He had learned as a child, in the last century, when "for fun" (or so 'he thought) the avevno wrote those numbers on your arm up there' in Germany.
The ash fell like snow, but he could not play.
How many friends, relatives, acquaintances has seen since ... without going back and hear the sea. And then the return home, only with his brother over 'small adventure, an odyssey, and still hear the sea ... The arrival in Rome, the help of someone who is "good", he learned a trade, apprentice in factory and in the din of the sea ... It was still married to a "good girl" who had given him 5 children, before leaving him alone ... to hear the sea.
Ah those memories ... and how the sea.
Every time he lost his strength, hope, looking within himself, in deep and rediscovered the sweet sound of the waves, sometimes the sea was too rough, it broke on the rocks of the soul, but the old man knew that his sea who could calm him down, even and especially during times of storm.
Would sit for hours, gazing endlessly, occasionally stroking his arm, the faith that still wore the ring, the forehead full of wrinkles.
Sometimes he sighed, you could approach him to see his thoughts.
He trusted that old, yet he trusted who was smiling .... and is' trusted me too,
telling of his life and teaching me to listen to my soul as the shell and find serenity 'in my view.
