There was a viaduct in my recurrent memories as a child.
It’s still there actually, with his decrepit grey cement and lampposts never lit.
At night it was a dark ominous thing to look at from the windshields and the last big sign that we were a very little distance from home.
I always feared it to fall down when we passed under it.

The high pine trees and silvery cedars you could see from the windows of my parent’s home became ugly, horned monsters able to eat me whole during winter storms, lit in cold fire by lightning.

The green light that will filter under the door beside my little bed in Grandmother’s old house when the church’s clock struck the twelfth hour. I never slept well while there, my eyes fixed on the key inside the keyhole that always seemed to turn a fraction more.

The irrational fear of the dark I had for a long long time, until I discovered that real terror very seldom hides in darkness.

A very curios saying that sticked with me was this, and they told it to me so often it became a beautiful mysterious story: when a storm was approaching/going away the many thunders were the hooves of Devil’s horses as he was taking his bored Queen for a ride over the clouds.
I think it’s a family thing because no-one I know seem to recognize it.
It was and still is incredibly poetic to me.
I passed many a storm looking up, searching for glimpse of that mythical (to my eyes) coach with black horses and the glossy opals of the Queen.

These were my fables, still deep waters under a broken bridge to be never rebuilt.

What were yours?

[Background Music: Beethoven – Moonlit Sonata + train home]

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