Two brothers (one could tell from shape and movement), in their fourties, eating ice-creams, backs leaning against a wall. A memory door.
It’s still too cold for ice-creams.
Here, the night is melting, dripping grey and lilac. And there, in memory, all golden sand and sharp shells.
Here, the year with the 700 days, and there, seconds, atoms and white teeth.
Here, no fears that haven’t been feared before, and there, stories from books with hand-coloured photos.
Two brothers eating ice-cream on a cold spring day.
Brothers: turning their backs to each other, going back to work, to the wives, and the children. They’ll meet again when the summer comes.
The summer with the 700 ice-creams.