INCOMING MAIL: Inside a box yellow and blue, the astonishment of remembering a holiday in Sardinia

I hope you received my package of yellow and blue, the one that I have shipped with the Italian Post Office, before our departure from Sardinia. As you know, our Vespa 300ie was not able to hold our memories of the wonderful holiday that we have lived together on the island surrounded by blue. Inside the box, you have found five small boxes, and each one has told you the story of a happy moment that we have lived together, mile after mile, bay after bay, sunset after sunset. Obviously, the weight of those memories of our trip, does not exceed 20 kg allowed by shipping “ordinary parcel abroad”, and even I had to pay extra for the five short poems that I have added, in each of the small emotions covered in yellow and blue.

In memory of Barbagia, as you certainly remember, we have not bought a bulky chest, richly carved, intended to hold your wedding outfit, but only a mask of cork. What you read in his box, is what I was thinking when you chose – among many – just the mask. That thought, a little excitement, hope remains alive, with what I write: “lives Cork, the bark of the summer, in every face.”

The memory of Oliena, it is obviously embroidered shawl, one triangular, with fine thread fabric wool, adorned on both sides with long fringe. I have not forgotten our special sunset, under the Tower of the Corsairs, in the Village of Golden Sands, and that night I still remember the number of your long-fringed shawl, identical to that of your years. Have you read the ticket, and I hope that what you have written you remember things my own: “Delicate skin, wrapped in purity. Sea sand. “

Silver and gold, but also semi-precious stones. For centuries, the craft production of Sardinia accompanies traditional costumes, but between buttons and earrings, brooches and rings, you had chosen two identical things, one for me and one for you. Two silver bracelets, set with two small stones of obsidian. Sculpted in the Monte Arci volcanic pasta, our silent zodiac signs tell us that that I have written, and you read: “Melting, black over silver, summer living.”

The area around Oristano, so rich in plants of asphodel and cane, palmetto and straw, is the one where we have chosen the same thing together, that we will see every day, on the table where we eat. The plaits have roots in prehistory, but the basket that we bought has only a few months of life and preserves the aroma of the marshes and the fingers of those who carried it out. The pagliola colored and its extraordinary colorful tones of green and blue, red and black, I hope to collect the bread of our everyday together, but I put it in a sheet and 17 syllables: “Inside the spring, or pink star charms faces.”

The fifth casket painted yellow and blue, perhaps you have guessed right away what it contains, because the move it has revealed her secret. Although we have not experienced the thrill of the carnival Mamoiada, we remember both – and good – who are the Mamuthones and Issohadores, but now I will reveal a secret: I wanted to be in the carnival, along with you, and I would wanted to be the Issohadore throwing at you own snare, to catch you, forever. “It proceeds slowly, is wooden mask in carnival.”