The worm that relentlessly gnaws away at us. A letter from old, useless things

The entrance to the austere building on Sempione stands wide open. At the far end, an Art Nouveau-style glass window is visible, glistening in the September morning sun. Two burly men are carrying large, overloaded cardboard boxes up and down from the fifth floor. They drop them with a thud onto the pavement, speaking an Eastern European language.

It is not exactly a house move; it is a clear-out. Phase one in emptying an old house. Before tackling the furniture, we need to get rid of the dead weight: fifty years’ worth of dusty bits and bobs.

I walk past the front door and glance inside. Tattered dictionaries, a broken globe. A record player – incredible. Copies of Linus that I’d steal, were it not for the fact that opening them would break my heart. This must have been the boys’ room.

A broken drawer is full of yellowed greeting cards, lace party favours from long-ago First Communions, and holy pictures.

And then – perhaps they’ll go to the friars – men’s jackets made of fine fabric, smelling of mothballs. High-heeled pumps, never worn.

The long black boots reaching above the knee that girls in the 1970s wore with miniskirts. Also, colourful children’s plates. A worn-out lead.

I walk through that doorway. In the bar’s mirror, I see myself looking gloomy. Empty houses, because the fathers have died.

The first step is to ruthlessly clear out the traces of a life spent together. What hurts me is that a drawer in the chest of drawers in our bedroom already looks a bit like what I’ve just seen. Tickets, mementos. I must throw them away, I tell myself, suddenly overcome with anguish: this stubborn hoarding is a sign of old age. And I’ll throw away the children’s schoolbooks too, and—without even opening it—the suitcase containing my own school diaries. And, almost in a frenzy, the class photos and the children’s milk teeth. Away, away, with a clean break. Perhaps the house, now lighter, will breathe more easily.

However, it is understood that this will be nothing more than a stopgap. Il Tempo will continue to work on it. Worse than war, perhaps even worse than death, is this relentless worm that, unnoticed, moment by moment, consumes us.