Empty hands
Choosing a diary is an exercise of new life, the discussion of the moment. At least for some people.
The arrival of three teenagers about to start the second year ended the matter in the most fitting way, chatting about the uselessness of a diary and of writing, to then go on to talk about something else. They were having a conversation about a moral code built on the mark of youthful pride.
Alessia listened without saying a word, piling up colours and covers and making entire shelves empty niches darker than before. She began complaining about her own indecision and the others, irritated by the usual waiting, encouraged her self-criticism by adding some of their own, as they were there and while they still could.
Alessia went home without a diary. Her mother stubbornly refused to understand why, and she stubbornly refused to explain, locked in a reflective mutism. To her the glass seemed far away, the phone incredibly inanimate and the shirt, ironed and stiff in its noble perfume, seemed like a spacesuit destined for who knows what mission. Even the cat didn’t communicate much that evening, but stretched out in a tired yawn that made it look comical and commanded everlasting affection.