Me pergunto

Me pergunto tantas vezes se você sente as mesmas coisas.


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Maria

Seus olhos verdes que sempre me convenciam a fazer o que você queria ainda brilham no sol. Por mais estranho que eu tenha achado antes, agora gosto do seu cabelo. Às vezes eu lembro de uns momentos avulsos, biscoitos com suco e apostilas (que não estudamos), guaraná Jesus e bolo de chocolate. Lembro também do suco Do Bem, das músicas que você punha pra eu ouvir (admito que gostei de várias) e dos pedacinhos de letras que você dizia e sempre se aplicavam tão bem à situação. Odeio perceber o quanto você influenciou meu gosto musical, eu que me orgulhava de ser tão independente. Odeio saber que eu comecei a discussão. Odeio não saber o que aconteceu com o seu ex e se você está bem. Eu normalmente gosto de usar palavras pra resolver tudo, e quase nunca acho difícil falar das coisas. Das coisas da escola, talvez, ou de história, mas de como tá tudo errado sem seu abraço de bom dia eu simplesmente não consigo. Não dá pra voltar no tempo e mudar o que já foi. O que a gente planta, colhe...
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The visitor

And once again, Loss comes to greet me. "Hello", she says, when I suddenly notice her standing behind the door I carefully open. Her body is cloudy, diaphanous - she herself almost a ghost. Her eyes are the only part that can be seem, of a shiny black color, like black ink in white paper. Fascinating, they are. She comes in without asking for permission. _I've been avoiding you..._ I weakly protest. _I know. You always are. She looks around the house and touches objects, things that remind me of someone lost. Her cold breath spreads white steam. She stands in front of the mirror. _I didn't always look like this.  _How were you, before? She suddenly changes into a little girl, blond braidings and vivid expression. Than turns into a teenage boy, black messy hair covering his eyes and a cigarette. She than become an old gentleman, all wrinkles and weak hands...  _You are every single loss in this world._ I finally understand. She goes back to her old form, in si...
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The empty chair

One of the most difficult things about being far from home is the certainty things will not be the same when you come back.  My great-grandma just passed away. I know it is the natural order in life, and she was 97, but I can't stop thinking about the empty chair I will find when I go back, because she will not be there.  I think I was perhaps the luckiest great-grandkid, because I could spend so much time with her. I'm old enough to remember the times when she was very healthy, and lucid and independent. She used to read my comic books. We would watch TV together at night. I could hear the sewing machine in the back room when she and my mom decided to repair some piece of cloth.  There are also some things I don't quite remember, but I've been told. I used to sleep laying in her belly as a baby. She was the one who gave me the beautiful metal swing for my one year old birthday, in which I played so many times.  Her house was where I spent my ch...
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