The Boy at the Window

A tiny boy was at the window. His eyes wandered along the familiar view, the neighbor’s pink house, the slim tree in the garden. His dad had gone out to look for a job. His mom was turning a wooden spoon in the huge pot. There was not much to eat, not at least for four people, but his mom’s hopes and her long stares tried to make the soup thicker and tastier at every turn.

One day, the boy thought, I will work too. I will walk next to my father, choosing my steps carefully along his shadow. I will grow taller and stronger and my family and neighbors will have to raise their neck to talk to me. Everyone will be proud of me. I will bring lots of food for my mom and dad and my sister. I will donate sweets and dates and plump fresh fruit to everyone who is hungry. His nose pressed more against the glass. His eyes reached the sky. He looked over every known detail. It was a game he did every time. First he lowered his eyes on the ground. He checked for stones, rocks and lizards. He was in love with their curled tails. He imagined they were ink-pens that let him write on clouds. Clouds were as soft as tails. He would have written his own name first, Anaan, and then the name of the puppy he loved, Kirshi. He was a tiny thing like him with a round and puffy tummy. Anaan gave him his favorite food whenever he could. He’d go for a certain twist in his stomach, rather than missing the chance of looking at Kirshi’s tongue running quickly over the egg he had carefully saved for days.

Anaan knew that he was a lucky boy. He was loved and he loved. He was able to hear the flowers singing after the wind, the sand moving like dancing skirts, and the tiniest creatures talk in the yard. He felt sparkly and excited whenever he pushed that secret idea aside…

Translated from the original Italian