hate astrology and meteorology. The first because it bothers me to see people believe it. The second because he believed the time will not change. But if astrology is a pastime of waiting rooms or salons and is easily controlled in its interference, meteorology tires you everywhere, especially in summer, when the Giuliacci Galbraith and there are a bunch in the office in the house and even the gas station. If I go somewhere I do that there is rain there is sun. You also can not decide their holidays based on the forecast, as the rental office are so embedded that the trip to London you part two minutes after the last stamped card. There was one person in my life that could make me wait for the weather as if they were Christmas presents unwrapped under the tree: My grandfather.
waiting to come back from the bathroom. The door opened, leaving soapy vapors free to cross the hall to my room. It was the signal odor. Quickly escaped the grip of the soft sheet rolled up and barefoot on the tile floor, I ran toward the great room of their grandparents. The timid head stretched over the frame of blond wood to peer into the room. I found my grandfather lying supine on the left side of the huge bed of brown wood carved. He wore a T-shirt usually white sleeves and a pair of cotton shorts by very old design. No sheet covered him, but the gray and black plastic radio was resting on her stomach and already singing the jingle advertising RadioUno. My grandmother, usually asleep, it was far from his side just enough to let the little body of a child fill in the blank. Thus, the wave of the hand of the grandfather or the sound of his "hello," which began slipping on the floor and I dive in the middle of the bed. Smile, a kiss and the smell of clean cotton of his shirt, aftershave and cologne water wash and dry the skin, the sight of his face and shaved perfectly clean, the swaying the radio on his stomach with every breath.
That plastic box rallied from that moment my carelessness. Voices, silly sounds and songs that defined the rest of the day, minutes next to my grandfather acquired an immeasurable value. And I was listening to the radio and newspaper services. News and sport. Even politics. Then at the end, after the publicity, the weather forecast that begins with a ring of bells in the middle between the mysterious and happiness. And my grandfather would get up the volume. Clouds, cumulonimbus, sirocco and north-east wind, weather in the morning and afternoon and grandfather commented. I explained the reasons behind making me fly over Italy. He said the low pressure coming from the France and the Alps, perhaps we would have fixed it. He said that Africa would bring rain and sand and that the car would be dirty. He said that in Foggia in summer at the time of the bombing rose the land from roads because of high winds.
My grandfather is gone. And I hate the weather.
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