From a stack of paper sheets between whites and others, half-written with old thoughts and old heroic verse, is checked for that enchantment which is capable only time one of your old photograph. It's a long shot of the beach: you, in the foreground, sitting on a deck covered with a red towel in a line of umbrellas. Behind you can see the lifeguard with his striped shirt, later, after other swimmers, the sea of \u200b\u200bblue almost gray under a clear sky. Your hair is strangely free on the back - usually with a rubber band instead collect them - and you look like a vestal or a deity of the classical world. You wear a bikini, white, with little drawings, and with the right foot games in order to dig in the sand, then ricomporrai. I am the photographer of course, as always: my eye behind the lens for groped to stop time, to tear to shreds infinitesimal bits to be subtracted from oblivion. I did, though now rest thrilled to watch this small rectangle of glossy paper that tells me you can do more than the latest technological devilry.
After thirty years I am surprised that resemblance to your father at that time I did not notice: the mouth, the cheekbones are the paternal inheritance from your mother you've got the character and the ease in communicating with the world to me is so very difficult. Then you will have been sixteen, seventeen, perhaps. I, for one year Senior badavo to your exuberance, your body growing and I felt alive and pulsating breathing next to me in the long afternoons, evenings of music and bar, on the nights of moons and stars.
I think of Propertius, the Roman poet and Cynthia, his beloved: "Cynthia was the first, Cynthia will be the last ...". I take the blue book of his elegies in my library, looking up your photograph that I brought to mind: "I'm not for her what I was: a long journey changes the girls, much love in a short time is lost!" . There it is, it's really true: the trip in this case is the time, but the result does not change. For you are no longer what it was. Holding hands in this simulacrum, this brief moment etched in my memory, I feel like a veteran to come back from a long war, after thousands of miles, with tattered clothes and weapons lost: his world is changed and looks dismayed.
Kazuya Akimoto, "Woman lying on the beach"
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