No, it makes no sense.
A farm with a full 50 years of life behind it, now immobile. Yes, nature goes forward, but without the guiding hand of man. Four years have passed since his last step. I struggle to make out the vines, swallowed up as they are by borage, thistles, yarrow, wild grain, and patches of scrub.
This can’t be true. I walk around, but it’s not enough: I have to struggle to climb the slope, since I’ll surely find something up there. What my eyes fall upon are 20 hectares of desolation. Vine-support poles are there, so I can re-create the logic of their planter, but that’s all I can see. That vivid, luminous green so characteristic of the vine’s leaves in this period is muted and inexpressive. The same fate has touched the walnut and fruit groves.
Resigned to the fact that I have, in fact, seen everything, I confront the cellar. The door protests on opening, no longer recognising its own key. Cool draughts of wine, dust, and acidity overwhelm my sense of smell. So many vats standing alone, some filled with wine, others with what is no longer wine. Wrenches, hammers lie on the floor, in position for the following day to fix the leak in that vat that just never wanted to stop. And it leaks still, the only sign of life, alone. An old man’s wine glass, half-full, still stands there, on the stool.
I leave. Oh, yes, they told me about the olive trees as well. They at least stand still tall, with so many flowers and loaded with olives, all for an abundant harvest that no one will enjoy.
I have to go home, since I can no longer stand to stay here. I pass by a storage shed, tight in the embrace of scrub and cherry trees. Peering in the window, I make out thousands of books. “It was his library, and he would sit in that chair by the carob tree and write….” I ask “How long ago?” “Just last month he passed, but it’s been four years since he’d been able to come here.” “But don’t you have children, grandchildren, someone that might help you?” “No, just me, and the 80 years upon me.”
What sense does it make? An entire life. No sense whatever.