There is nothing in the world but the swing and I. I’m inside the basket that hangs from the olive tree at my grandmother’s house. I can hear my mum telling a story in hushed voice to my granny; they don’t want me to know what they are talking about, that’s why even the invisible insects that sing in the garden are making more noise than them. Suddenly, a word doesn´t want to be anonymous anymore and escapes from my mum’s mouth. Silence says hello and mum seems as embarrased as the day that my brother said “shit” in church but I know a new word now: “Gynaecologist”. I’m younger than two so I think that such a appalling utterance can only be a cat’s name. I don’t like cats and I am scared of them. My granny has many and I hate them because they have big green eyes that flash in the dark corridors of the old, ghostly manor house which, for a baby, it’s terrifying. I’m thinking of the cat that scratched me because I have baby’s sweet smell of milk and sugar and I want to cry but a soft wind rocks the swing, as if Nature would comfort me and the sun whishes to make me smile, drawing funny forms on my dress, shining through the leaves of the olive tree, that look like little silver swords, ready to protect me if a cat attacks. Nothing can do me harm inside the swing.
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