Today, for the first time in my life, I sawed a tree.
A medlar, namely, that grew in my terrace by BOH, fifteen years.
I had to do it in a few days, rain and cold weather permitting, we will do the work and the tree was so large, suffocated in his vessel, we would not be able to move out of the house (down three flights of stairs with no lift, onwards).
to dismantle and reduce to some bundle of leaves, half green and half yellow and a bit of kindling fifteen years of work, it took ten minutes. I'm almost disappointed.
Sure, he has resisted: the green wood (wood is good, the scent of green) is flexible, elastic, saturated with humor, knead the saw blade (Sandvik, Sweden, I would think an IKEA on the contrary, or Swedish conspiracy that makes us dismantle and assemble furniture mountable trees, but the Swedes beyond Surstromming are not capable of cruelty), sawdust, blown by the wind, it gets in your eyes, but in ten minutes I finished the same. He also
fruit, medlar little guy, but sweet, and it was a struggle with the blackbirds that - in the right season, is affixed to the neighboring antennas and - wham - in seconds you leave the orange peel and seeds, brown, glossy, pecking the flesh with incredible precision. But a dozen medlar every year there are the meals.
This tree has survived my mother, and some medlar has split with the L, a small woman simpatcissima and always dressed in black, four feet high (without his mustache, of course) who came to assist with the last weeks of his illness, which sometimes, in the pauses of the work I was going to smoke a sigarettina on the terrace (I mine, her her, of course, that Linda always made me goggle).
do not know why I cut today, perhaps because it had to be done, because I sorry to see him still there, same as always, postponing from day to day (it's cold, probably the builders will not be this week, it will rain, you can not lay concrete or tile when it rains). Maybe because I have anything to reproach myself with, or bring to bear to someone else.
Because when, by accident or design, from small disappointments to someone and there remains bad, when something like references illudessi if you always have a second chance, I take what is called here the Morbin, the inability to stand still, between the nervous and angry, need, almost physical, to do something.
A bit like when you get an injection. Think: close eyes, hold your breath, relax, it does not hurt.
It does not hurt.
It does not hurt.
