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When I think about my days, I would hardly be able to take a picture to summarize them. But a series of photos are like many little clues, bread crumbs tofollow so you can get home. To be little kids again, in the arms of our parents.

The memories of my childhood work like this. Sometimes the smell of fallen leaves in October will take me back in time 30 years to the weekends we used to spent in the countryside with my grandparents.
The journey seemed impossible. I don’t want what was worse: the smell of petrol that my dad’s old car used to make or my sister’s never ending question: Are we there yet?

But when the car turned right on the dirt road and I would open the window to let the air imbued with the scent of autumn fill mine nostrils I knew Iwas in my happy place. The air smelled of wet earth and yellow leaves, but mostly ripe grapes, ready for be harvest.
My grandparents have already heard us and were waiting for us outside the gate together with a large black and white dog undecided whether to start barking
or not.
“Welcome, are you hungry?” were my grandmother’s first words.

Yes, I’m hungry, I’m hungry to still be there, with them, to be able to hug them and sink my face into her soft breast that smelled of abundance.

I don’t remember their faces anymore. As much as I try their eyes and their smiles they are lost forever. There were few photos of them when they were still with us and those too have been lost divided among my uncles. I am left with small fragments of memories of my days there.

Photos are an invaluable legacy, which we take for granted with so much ease.
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