on my last night on earth, i won't look to the sky,
just breathe in the air, and blink in the light.
From across the street down the bridge I could already spot the old man. Usually with his white shirt and blue jeans, sat by his old green piaggio parked by a tree, smoked a cigarette, read a newspaper. Soon as he saw me he would smile, folded his paper, took off his glasses. He would drive me and drop me off the pizza restaurant at the corner of the street. In a less then five minutes ride we would have a conversation although from the back seat I could barely hear what he said.
Out of billions of life that happen parallel to ours, only a few that happens to intersect with ours. Since three years ago, mine intersected his every Saturday mornings by a green piaggio.
But one day he's not there. One Saturday to another, he's not there anymore. I thought he might be dead. I had no idea what kind of life he' been living beside his old green piaggio. I didn't even know his name.
Until last Saturday, months after I last saw him. He's there. He said he was staying with his son, out of island. He couldn't stand not doing anything but rest. So he came back here to his green piaggio. There he told me, a fragment of a life lived by a man whose path happens to cross mine. And he told me his name.
