I draw a map of objects in my life.

The blanket my nineteen years old mum knitted for me when I was born, and all my sisters used, and then gave me when I was pregnant. Surprisingly twenty-seven years later she had to look for the same pattern and make another identical one, I was having twins.

The portone which my grandpa opened all the time we returned to Sardinia, where I was born, my mum’s hometown. Times of warmth, family, aunties, cousins and loved and less loved uncles, being together, minestrina, pistoccus and the smell of coffee, zafferano, fireplace, celebrations, beautiful cold deep blue sea and restoring sun. It opened on a pebbled and glorious garden, always full of flowers, an olive tree, cats and the open arms of my nonna.

A winged bottle opener and corkscrew, Roby, which my dad with his strong and callus hands stained of cement would make talk and say jokes and go into all sort of adventures under attentive ears of curious daughters with open eyes and smiles bigger than their faces.

The wedding ring, with the name and the date of a promise made by two young, naïve and madly in love children who decided to grow up together and make up for a previous lost life.

The blankets, again, to close the circle, and Elia and Emma’s hospital bracelets: baby boy Gualberti 26/03/2011 5.25am; baby girl Gualberti 26/03/2011 5.50am. When I felt the strongest, most powerful, almost divine, and most vulnerable and fragile in my all life. When my heart expanded, when you came out of me through blood, tears and pain, you became a reality with the support of my love, my rock, my anchor and my mum who I could, only then, begin to forgive, understand. I look outside the window and under the changing sky I see the mountains, their outline, I feel at peace, from my window here in Belfast, or from my parent’s home in Viareggio or when I travel South and see the Mournes, I feel home.