Frágeis

Há amores que não sobrevivem ao crivo da realidade. 
E reparem, quem pode culpá-los?





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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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On the sense of continuity

I must admit that I keep hoping for it all to be the same when I am back. Or actually, better. I keep imagining little flashes of routine, you frying something in the kitchen the smell of melting butter and the shhhhh it makes when hot, wearing a shirt that's too big for you while the sun comes in through a window. Me decorating our new apartment putting flowers everywhere and buying tablecloth and pillow covers, me worrying about all the little details like bed linen and the color of the cups. As you say, killing it with kindness, being a control freak in the sweetest way, saying you can buy all the kitchenware you want but only in this specific color, babe, otherwise it doesn't fit the plates.  I must admit that I make plans. Of all the beautiful things I could bring from all my trips, of sleeping and waking up by your side, even the fights we'd have over how many times your friend comes over for lunch doesn't she have a job if she keeps eating our food might as we...
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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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