A simple woman

Somewhere near Milan, in some time towards the end of the 70s.
I owe the learning of the Milanese dialect to the great and unattainable sciura Bruna, for all the times he chased me screaming his anger for having played on the landing or for having exchanged mail in the tenants’ boxes, an immense repertoire of words and good-natured insults, which regularly gave way to a candy, an irreplaceable sign of peace and brotherhood.
Time passed and the sciura Bruna…