I'm an italian girl who grew up eating many stories. I devoured so many, that I decided to try to do my part.
I hope you enjoy my stories!
My blog: http://mangiastoriecantastelle.wordpress.com
That day, I got off at the bus stop I used when I was a girl, back when I went to high school. I crossed the park, taking the side path always full of mud, where I risked slipping. The trees were laden with yellow leaves near the swings and the slide was now ruined by time. Beyond the faded pedestrian crossings, I kept going until the little green door, its paint completely chipped off. It led to a tiny corridor, turning left with stairs to the cellars, wedged between a wall and a hedge. In front of me, another hedge, much better maintained than before. The hole in the corner of the fence had been fixed; no cat would cross it anymore, as it used to. And finally, inside the garden, there was what I had come to find: my maple.
The conversation about what happened on that distant sunny afternoon fifteen years ago started casually, as they expressed their contempt for people who believe in the evil eye and other similar nonsense. Like that time their aunt brought them to get cleansed during summer.