Here.

My Sweden is made of snow in May.

of flat tires of the wheelbarrow working in the garden.

It tastes of ginger biscuits, of snow mountains half moldy that melt.

It is made of deep affections with persons shortly before unknown.

Of stamps, postcards never arrived

of no hoping cryings at the start, but then…

my Sweden has the silent sound of teardrops, too strange to be dropped crying, but laughing

and collecting warm goodbye hugs, from those Swedish that just some months ago looked cool like a popsicle ate in a hurry.

My year is black and white

Ink on postcards and lockers in the corridors su cartoline e armadietti nei corridoi

white, like the swans slipping on the lake behind home.

It reminds me of hours piled on the trains, from the south t the centre of Sweden

My head sounds of keys in the lockers, names of the teachers shouted by the students ten meters away,

of tests in Swedish and “I will come back” “when will you visit me?” “I want to live here” “I think I will study in Sweden”.

of prepositions that do not want to get in the head

and of grades that never changed, anyway I studied

This year made me feel half swedish, sometimes less Italian then I am actually, sure of myself, ashamed of nothing

A year that smelts of swedish flowers, wet grass in the morning with just a few degrees above zero.

My school reminds me of pencils used for the tests, because it is late to go back, but you can always change what is going to happen.

classrooms and corridors of white, moquette and swivel chairs

the French lessons in Swedish

I lived my year as intensely as the heartbeat after a climb by bike

like the happiness that the Sun appearing after weeks, gives

or like waking up with the light, after have left the curtains opened.

This year has been as long as sleepless nights of the first few months,

but in the end as short as a teeth cleaning at the dentist

My Sweden tastes of yoghurt fil, of cream, butter on the bread, raw vegetables, fruit eaten in the same plate of the gratin dish of cream and fish, of kaviar
My year let me to understand that you do not always get what you expect to, giving your best.

It has been to talk a new language as it was Italian, forgetting my mothertongue.

Doing thing I hated in the start, but then learn to be used to them and see them like the most beautiful things ever existed.

It has been see the sky from a different side and feel the distance, but close again looking to the moon, with the craters you always see.

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