The Yellow Chair
He is getting old and losing strength — this yellow chair is his only window on the world. It’s a smaller world, now, in which he lives, but still .... A two-minutes story
This story was inspired by my brother-in-law, Wayne Bassano, the coolest Italian I know.
Uncle Bruno, in his tattered house slippers and his knitted vest, sits in the yellow chair in the afternoon sun. His carved wooden cane lies across his knees. A fine breeze from the sea whips up the narrow cobblestoned lane, rearranging the strands of white hair that remain on the top of his head. The air brings with it the smell of fish and cigar smoke. And memories. Closing his eyes, he tilts his face up to the sunlight and sighs.
The yellow chair is next to the front door, where he can greet his neighbors as they pass. Here is Giulia leading her grandson by the hand. Her shoes are worn, stockings slightly rumpled. She wears a gray hand-knitted sweater with a wadded up hankie peeking out of the pocket. She gives Bruno a biscotto, saying “Buon giorno, bello, come stai?” She looks tired, he thinks. They talk about the upcoming wedding of Lucia’s niece. Bruno says, “Lei ha scelto male.” She has chosen the wrong man. But it’s not his place to say anything.
Later comes Fabio, the old fisherman in his black beret and baggy pants. He carries in a basket a tiny white dog, a newspaper and a long loaf of bread. “Bruno, caro, come vai?”
“Bene. Tutto bene,” he answers. They chat about the weather and about the schools of sardines that have finally returned to the harbor, grazie a Dio. They lament the sudden death of their friend, Anna, who was only 78. “Un peccato,” they say, shaking their heads.
Leonardo and Liliana, the twins, come walking home from school. They stop to show him their drawings of boats. He asks them to sing him a song, and they do. They kiss both of his cheeks. He formally shakes their hands and makes them laugh. “Ciao, Zio Bruno,” they say, and continue on home for their lunch.
The neighbors’ black and white cat tiptoes slowly across the lane to him, rubs against his shins in both directions, leaving a swath of fur on his trousers. Bruno reaches to pat him on the head and the cat rises up on two legs to bump his palm. They share the sun for a while.
He is getting old and losing strength — this yellow chair is his only window on the world. It’s a smaller world, now, in which he lives, but still full of people who acknowledge him and look out for him, who give him their time and affection. His neighbors have become his family.
On a sunny afternoon in the village of Manarola, blessings are counted. This is what it is to be Italian.
I love that the community has become his family.
Italians really take care of each other....