Routine is a set of gestures you carry out with systematic precision in your daily life, regardless of the level of lucidity in support. Mine is composed of 3 alarm clocks with decreasing shock level, obstacle race amidst the toys spread all around the house by my three “tornados”, check of the weather conditions for the consequent clothing ritual and preparation of breakfast for a whole family, usually very hungry.
But there is a moment, between the last plate of fruits and my calling out the boys, when time stops. The smell of coffee fills the space between me and the wall of memories, a little corner in my living room, just next to a big window overlooking the garden, that has become a mosaic of photos during the years.
In those 5 indispensable minutes, I sip my coffee and the connection with the real world completely drops out. It’s my routine. My snapshot. And today, I stumble on the photo of grandpa.
I never met him. The picture I have of him is the sum of the few shots I possess and my father’s endless stories about him. But now he is here, strolling in the very same garden before me.  Before disappearing from my memories he stops, puts his hand into his breast pocket and pulls out a pocket watch with a silver chain. He smiles and lifts his gaze on mine. And his smile broadens.
My film is fading away and I imprint this picture on my mind just in time, while the guys are already around the table, without me having to call out loud.
I tell time. This unexpected initiative of my kids leaves me hanging for a bit more time. Yesterday we were in Porto Cervo for a photo shooting with Calabritto28. It’s a watch, if you don’t know it. But if you are lucky enough to know it and you are wearing one on your wrist, you know it is much more. It takes its name from an elegant road in Naples, a fashionable meeting point for a stroll for the Neapolitan bourgeoisie. It’s the ultimate combination between the design of antique pocket watches and prestigious hand-made straps in different fabrics.
Obviously, I spent the day trying on all kind of straps, always falling in love with the one I was wearing, for how comfortably it sat on my wrist. It had all the rigour of an important accessory, with a soft casual touch that made it suitable for every occasion.
I rarely happen to feel so much at ease with a new item. With Calabritto28 it was love at first touch. So much so that it still sits on my wrist, generally used to the sole caress of the wind.
Now that I’m still hanging on this ancestral memory, between a time passed and never lived and the present time, I understand how much my memories influence many of my actions. Maybe love reveals itself in thousand gestures, crosses the border of time and gets back to us in different forms. Many of them we do not understand at once, others show up so clear, all of a sudden. Wonderful and sweet. Like my grandfather’s smile that colours my time.