When I was ten years old, my dad’s mom told me that my domestic competence were at an unacceptable level, and that, after homework, I would have to learn how to cook, knit and embroider the wedding trousseau, the one that I would have to show my future mother-in-law at the eve of my marriage.
For its part, my mother bought the first of twelve volumes of recipes and a book, "The art of governing house and family" with a red dust jacket on which a woman appeared in an apron ready for the housework.
I opened the book and in the index I started to read:
• how to remove stubborn stains;
• how to properly store clothes in the closet
• rearrange children's toys ...
"I'm only ten," I said.
"Do not be silly! For the girls, that's just how it is " replied in chorus my mother and my grandma .
I remained for days in absolute silence. I felt alone, an exception to the rule, a species belonging to an alien form.
My teacher insisted long before I told him that the world had something wrong. He told me that in life I could do what I wanted and go anywhere. He told me that in the world and in my own country too there were girls of my own “species”. He gave me some books to read. I clung to the words. Since my grandma couldn’t read and write, in case of her random searches, while I read books, I’d hide them under the with the red dust jacket .
on the road of yellow stones
traces of rust