Not to say i didn't talk about the trees

 

I wanted to tell you so many things. Today, I wanted to strip away the layers of this dermis that no longer allows me to fly, as before. I resort to the blank page. She welcomes my feelings and needs, as if they were your cupped hands, saving water for my mouth so thirsty for you. No more dreaming of you on cold, muddy nights. Not even in the glorious sunsets that I see from here, from the owls, looking at the Castle in infinity. I feel like a convict, a prisoner of their wrong choices, a hostage, they say, and clearly, they are right, of what I speak and free of what I keep silent. But let me tell you that it has been more than fifteen days since the last time I was with you in that dreamlike world, and I still carry in my eyes, in my hands and in my mouth, yes, in my mouth, the taste of the water you offered me. In the clay bowl, perched between the old kitchen cupboard and the older still wood stove. That pucara where your hands collected the water I drank took me back to the beginning of time. On the wall that separated the corridor to the bathroom, the boards let in the light and the mists of the past peeked out, as if there had never been steps between past and future of any time. In them, between the boards, your smile framed by the scruffy curls, your jeans and the discourse of a future to come, I found the ball. 

That sewing into the night, the sky covered with stars where all the constellations were ours. When the good father does not allow me to be with you in my sleep, I am trapped, my wings wither, like two skewers that get tangled between the old branches of the trees that shout at the top, that heat the coffee on the fire. I hear them crackling and I even hear the shuffling of Almerinda's slippers as she calls our son for a snack: 

- Cristino, come here and eat something! The boy is stubborn and dry, jimbras like his father, but he doesn't fool anyone, he's a cristino, you can see him right in the face!

I push the locks of my hair away to listen through the boards to this crackle of the pine needle that delights my senses, when the aroma of coffee invades me.And I listen to music, you see, music that you compose between your blackberry lips, sweet, and Rui's breaks, generous and shrill mouth out until it reaches his wrists, as if he also had wings and  used them as drumsticks in the symphony of writing life. 

You know, every night is dark and ugly when I can't find you. I close my eyes and try to see the mist, listening to the trinities that come from under the churchyard, and my ears are tools that I tune to hear you and, thus, calm the beating of the hours in my chest. And you, whom the father put in front of me, thinking me worthy to love you, are neither had nor found in pronunciations, only from my direct speech can sentences be drawn. I value the effort of the good god and I no longer force myself to silence what I am telling you, drawing with the tips of my fingers, in your hair, in your hooked nose, in your smile that sustains my hope, caresses. You know all this, and I know you feel it in your soul. I wanted to show you all the life to which I was entitled, but this fear of saying love and then losing found itself stuck in me, since my father died and yes, I let fear win and that's how you escaped me between the cracks of those old tablets of round-headed nails, where I could hear the music of the wind among the pines and the voice of men from many centuries ago. Serene redemption, mine, of course, for an armistice that I carry you, also in my hands, full of skin and thin, where arthrosis is conquering space, fresh water from the clay pucara of Almerinda and sweeten with two spoons of brown sugar and half of honey which is a mother's recipe, then I stretch the curtain again that hides the marmalade and goat cheese, I walk two short steps and sit down on the usual stool, where she and I exchange the words of love between a mother and a partner who are inspired by you to weave peace. The coffee cools in the jug, which I sip between bags of tears and feel his hands run down my hair, and I even smell the warm smell of his shawl behind his back, asking me not to rain like this, that after the storms of despair, the calm will come. And I, who believe in it, listen to the music driving the dikes of the water of my irises, to make gardens bloom in the sky. Love is a miracle. All the women who tore you away from me, came into your life with a single purpose: - To show you what love is not. Dismantle the ancestral beliefs of your parents that you still water, distracted. That thou mayest recognize in thyself where are thy forgotten gifts, offered for the purpose that is foreseen, that is approaching, every second closer. Love is the closest miracle to heaven, between yours and mine. And while the teapot boils the amphora and rosemary water, I weave you a scarf of intimacies, as if it were a marker so that you don't forget the way back. I embroider to you the love I have for you in the chambray of this bittersweet afternoon. And now I sip the hot tea, as if I were drinking it from your fingers, while I hear someone sing the cry in your mouth.