One o’clock in the morning struck.

I was irritated because, although I considered the appointment with the ghost of the past an immense nuisance to be deflected by a good night’s sleep, I had not slept a wink and had been lying there staring at the ceiling, with the fan humming relentlessly. Seized with a certain restlessness, in fact, I had barred the windows, but the August air in the attic can put a strain on even a desert animal like me.

Suddenly the candlelight wavered and I became paralyzed at hearing the dreaded voice, and I glimpsed in the darkness that strange figure, fluctuating and shifting, something between a child and an old man, with that jet of living light coming from his head.

I immediately said to him, animated by a great spirit of courtesy: Thank you for your thoughtfulness, but let’s not spoil the night: let’s both go back to sleep! The world is full of unstable and resentful people on whom to pour your loving as well as annoying intentions!

Rise and follow me, he replied.

Meaning now we’ll fly out the window in search of my past August Christmases! Spare me this unnecessary agony!

We flew over country, countryside, rivers and lakes, but then, with a U-turn, we returned to the village and I became convinced that he had taken a wrong turn. I began to grumble that these days even spirits could not be trusted and that if he wanted I could open Maps to him. But then I saw the little house on S. Street and a light on behind the glass door of the balcony overlooking the street. I saw the little figure hunched over at the desk, which she herself had placed close to the door to get more light, but also to carve out a private corner outside the overcrowded room of sisters. Around her was a bookcase and a glass cabinet, which she had had salvaged from a junk dealer, on which she laid all her little things: cross-stitch magazines, old Assisi Stitch albums by auntie from Arezzo, Rakams from years gone by, and again ornaments chosen with exhausting indecision during travels and school books. At the desk, the work basket with the horrible cross-stitch crafts scattered and unfinished.
My cynicism was shaken by a dip in my heart.

A memory (an image fossilized in a synapse) can open a gateway that sucks you into an accelerated race, in which you swerve, without a precise time sequence, into glimpses of lived life, with the same confusion and vividness as in a dream. Each image you bounce on opens up new vistas and characters, words, sensations resurface. Terrifying and fascinating to realize that they were there, inside your head, without your really being aware of it.

Can you see what he is doing? The Spirit asked with a hint of irritated satisfaction.

Not at all! I answered, lying. I could tell from his smirk that he knew I could not ignore him, but I had sworn to myself that I would not give him any satisfaction.

The wretch had embroidered a cross-stitched candle, which rested on a candle holder made of prickly pear, red berries and gold sequins. At that very moment she was looking for a way to stick it in the folding compartment of an oval passpartout card, made especially for making Christmas cards. They were very fashionable at that time. It was clearly summer because she was wearing a light dress and not as plump as my mind used to judge her appearance.

As I recalled some related memories, I felt simultaneous sadness for the her of then, the me of now, and for that pang of regret rising in my throat, as well as nostalgia for the good times back then. I looked fiercely at my Spirit to try to erase, in vain, the hateful smirk. Ohibò! He said. The maiden is preparing Christmas presents!

If the maiden there was studying, now perhaps she would be able to conclude something good!

He tore me from my memory and dragged me over to a snowy clearing, which I recognized at once. A good dozen neighborhood kids were staging an epic snowball fight, and she, in the girls’ squadron, was going at it as hard as anyone. Oh mom!!! I said. How could I stand all that cold? Look! She doesn’t even keep her jacket on! In the heat of battle, the shirt and T-shirt underneath have shrunk and leave a shred of skin exposed–can’t he feel the sadistic winter breeze freezing his bones! So there was a time when my physique could withstand the rigors of winter?

In no time at all, I found myself in my bed.

When I awoke, I seriously began to dread the arrival of the ghost of the present.