My grandfather got married at home; he believes in God of course, but got excommunicated: he was a communist. And he still is... And he tells me the story of his life: battles lost and won, the war, the love for his wife and for politics, his dreams, the light blue scarf that belonged to Gramsci and Berlinguer's punctuality, the problems of being communist in a province of Southern Italy among the most bigoted ones and the clashes with the new generations, the inevitable 'Sunset Boulevard' of his life... He keeps telling in a way only a grandfather to a nephew can: with endearment, intimacy, whispering tips, between the lines, just like he doesn't want to be noticed. He tells all of this, and even more: because, beyond the words, gestures, silences, facial expressions, his slow pace speak as well. Just like the way he gets excited during the procession of the patron saint...