A portrait of a man, a bed of which only the structure supporting a white cloth remains, a chest, a crucified Christ and a chair: simple things that assume an extraordinary power when they are interrelated by history. My grandparents’ house. I took the photo from the same point of view I had every time that, just entered, I looked up to Grandpa’s bed during the last period of his illness. 
Endowed with an unshakable faith, he was always accompanied by a crucified Christ and his prayers.
The portrait of the uncle who fell during the First World War, in military uniform, always blew me away and, sitting on that chair, I used to look at his gaze so alive and proud. The chest hasn’t always been there, maybe someone wanted it to be in the hallway to guard the last memories of a house now at the end of its history. 
But in that end there was a new beginning: when I opened it, it was completely empty but those centuries-old wooden slats were the treasure of my past, of a time that I never understood and that, only now, it has revealed itself to me.
Thanks Grandpa, thanks Dad.