Tuesdays, teas and blues

 

Today I'm tea. I dreamed of you. You were no different. You weren't older, you weren't bitterer, you weren't madder. Yesterday I dreamed that your lips drank in the words that I poured into your ears, that told me the distance between our skins and mucous membranes, between the years and the appendages, between our experiences and the pauses. Yesterday I was with you, today I'm tea.

Whenever I dream of you, it's when I wake up that hurt and anger come to me. Anger, even. I don't even recognize myself. And so that they don't smile or cry at my grief, I swallow, I mute, I whisper, I punch myself inside, while I slim down your memory, but then, my love, then I thank you. To be with you, while I look in the mirror at my colorless eyes, while I wash my teeth and unlook at the lack of your love. And I comb through the white and wild strands, I notice another white one on the eyebrow, i remember the softness of your curls between my fingers, the warmth of your warm and sweet breath, your badly groomed beard, your smile ah, I go crazy! What a ray of adventure this is, to revive you as if you were dead, a memory of my imagination, of a persistent and itinerant mourning! You follow me everywhere, the peripheral vision even in the blackbird sees you, believes you are still possible in my future.

Love is the most sublime of gifts and I say this here, to myself, countless times, but you are even more sublime in what I keep from you, in what I preserve in me, supreme orchestra of the gods, to allow a simple mortal this feeling of companionship that is not exhausted, dreamlike emperor in my world. And I push myself between the many times she asks me: Cristina, is today Tuesday?  Yes, today is Tuesday, again, and the spinach rice crumbles in her mouth, the sea bream, hooked on the fork cuts a piece and takes the glass again, this sweet pear should be a liter and a half, slips and I nod yes, hoarse, unwilling to talk, the sacrifice of answering, pausing the food and the words,  carrying this longing for not touching you after a sweet pear, I lean back in my chair, -Do you want melon or apple spriega?  And I hear her repeat that today can only be Tuesday, because on Tuesdays, she says, the days are always like this, they always know at the beginning of a week that it could be bad weather, -but mom, it's spring, so today is Tuesday, that's it, today is Tuesday and it really tastes like Tuesday, after those slices of the Spriega, I could have a coffee,  who knows, outside, in the shade, but Cristina, the shade is cold and maybe it will rain, if you gave me a mess, I would prefer it! And I am silent again, I put my hand to her hair, I push the repas away from her front, so that she can see, through the kitchen window that the sun is shining outside, that she could take it inside her chest, in order to warm the shadows that she carries with her, -daughter, take me a cup of coffee, but load up on the sugar, yes, mom,  today is Tuesday and I give her a coffee, yes, but first the bagacinho, you know, the people here live more because of the bagasse, and i shudder, i remember in the tavern of Pote, there in Castelo, the men of the village drink the mata-bicho, without really carrying shadows, or Tuesdays, or forgetfulness, in crosswords and dominoes, - she already has a doctorate mother, damn it, i wish I wanted to cross the words, tear them up, invent neologisms to the pain to make it new, I wish I could tear my shadows, my longing for him! And she asks me if I'm talking about him, he, if he's Faustino, yes, mother, my son, but your son's name is Francisco, you're talking about Faustino and I know who he is, I don't answer, in my face turned to the window, can't she see shining in my eyes the pain I feel at not seeing him,  no mother likes to see pain in her children's lost gaze. And in the eyes of old people like me, in addition to the pain, you can see the tiredness and no mother likes tears, before Tuesdays, before the shadows and winters in the blankets, in the pajamas, in the sweet pears and in the pomaces, but I miss a man, this no longer exists, daughter, it was so long ago, look at what he gave you,  forget it, forget it, mother, just don't forget my bagasse, no, mother, the bagasse, only half of the cup. The dishes in the machine, the stove washed, the cloth washed, the tiles washed, my face washed and the shadow on her face, which yes, it's Tuesday in the world, or at least in Marecos, it's Tuesday mom, tomorrow will be Wednesday, if you don't mind, and since you won't let me help you, I'll go to the armchair in my room,  finish a word soup and take the chalice, i help her and guide her, without her feeling my fingers on her cardigan, short walk of half a dozen steps to her room, but difficult and fragile, to keep her balance, oh these carotids are going to kill me, how tiring, she is a mother, today is Tuesday and it's sunny and he knocks here on the window, on the armchair, on words and memory,  and pick up his cell phone to listen to Jabé, do you know who Jabé is?, Mom, I don't want to know anyone else, I don't want to hear anything, mom, but you listen to music Cristina, music mom, music, I need to listen to music, but before I hang out the laundry, cut my toenails, cut the brambles in the garden, get busy, because today is Tuesday and in no time we'll be back on the weekend,  'cause we're mother, if you need me, call me by the bell, throw it against the wall, against the door, against the hallway, call Tomás, mom, let me go now, yes you are going to hang the laundry, in no time you have to change the beds and there are two or three more machines to extend! yes, mom, and I run down the corridor like a convict who is going to jail for another year, I smoke two or three cigarettes while I drink a coffee on the edge of the grill counter, while I wait for the machine to finish to roll out the laundry of the days, of Tuesdays, while I wonder if today, Tuesday, when the night comes,  I'll see you again, inside the cloud of Morpheus, and I extinguish the last cigarette, like a convict's, and replace the cats' water jars, I fill Rocky and Kirie's buckets and I go to the machine to remove the clothes and lay them out on the clothesline, a welcome warmth with a breeze of wind, a breath of fresh air, while I stretch, look at the surrounding nature, the trees and all the wild expanse,  there is no one who comes to cut all the branches and weeds, I've already called Mr. Gabino, who will come, but not so soon, the strokes of the japoneira, the mimosas, the huge and aggressive palm tree, but I see the green and I think you'll be happy, that this year Sporting wins the cup, the trophy, and the sky is blue and soon, morpheus commune with me and you're mine,  again, as it did twenty-five years ago. And now, it's 23.24 minutes of this still Tuesday. And Eva is still between the knitwear, a yellow jacket that she bakes ready and the word soups, the videos of Jabé and Mónica Medeiros and she swears that she even likes Tuesdays, she just doesn't like to see me sad with the world. And I swear to you, every time I give you the sleeping medication, that everything is temporary, everything, the sadness and the joy, the rain and the sun of the shadows, the championship of Sporting, it just won't be the nostalgia I have for you, but I don't tell you that, I keep it to myself, don't let her decide to advise me more lemon balm tea. Today I drink tea with music, which is the same as inviting you to my tea, with these blues that are dedicated to you.