Love was cooked over low heat

 

At that time, time descended slowly, making the streams tame, the bread came out of the oven with the taste of harvested wheat, the men walked slowly, had manners, another education, nothing was thrown away, the hugs were savored under the lines of the sky, with God blessing and inspiring the spindly hearts. Love dripped onto the baking trays and everyone was served. In the time of my ancestors. Last night I slept four hours. I dreamed about Grandma Bina and even woke up in a very good mood. She will be celebrating her birthday on the twenty-ninth of this month. Before her, my oldest boy. My brother after her. In the time of my paternal grandmother, the food of the gods was always served at the table, savored with mildness, duly appreciated. My grandmother served love like no one else.

Today, times are different. I'm not Albina Ferreira da Silva Guedes, I'm Cristina Guedes. I frame the rectangle where I live, with glass and barbed wire, in vulnerable places, inside, to make sure that whoever enters will fall. I thought I want to see the face of the enemies. To whom I gave my love, my friendship, my help, my attention, my concern, my meager money, my naivety, my meals, my furniture, plates, and other stuff, my precious heart and time, to anyone and everyone who tries to invade my privacy, will have to look me in the eye. I asked them to install, like the neighbor downstairs, cheap cameras, he to watch his mother during the day in the fields, in case she falls, I to catch jackals. The men who put the said ones on me told me that I should have a gun. A pistol, a shotgun, anything that makes noise and scares the bad guys. And some spotlights that would turn on the approach of hot bodies, as I have already had. I didn't agree. I told them that I am a weapon, because I am martial. Smiled. I don't know if they understood. But if they remember the martial plan, they get there. And the darkness protects me, it leaves me in defense mode. All in complete darkness. Now it's given me this: to enjoy the darkness and savor survival. The neighbor next door tries to break through the side, invading the otolaryngologist's land, to come and peek at my rear windows. The pretend people, dressed as people who crawl into my territory, who try to overthrow my privacy! They are warned by my gaze and my silence. I am an old warrior, kept in the depths, whom I was taught to bring to the surface. Today on the surface, there are no traces of sweetness, of the old tenderness, of the old empathy, nothing, nothing, everything inside, outside is this vigilant soldier who guards the night of his own, me and the dog, we are both of the same species, we guard our night from the mourners and the armies of evil, protecting ours, we are equal. There is no difference between us. Except I'm vaccinated and she isn't. Against bacteria and against humans pretending to be good people. Before I see them, I already see their mask, I already measure their intentions, jackals from another life that want to hang on to my energy, to see me fall. And the legion of mine, of those who march without a human body, blow me so many versions of all of them, that I even know their shadows and mannerisms, calculations and trapezisms of the devil. And yes, I'm lying in wait and it's me whom they want  and it's them who will see me. And I just let them land. They carry hidden intentions in their papers, in their skin, in their smell. Love vanishes like the dish of hunger in the belly of the indigestible, like the viscosities of winter in this season. It is gone. It lies dead and cools down. It is in the twilight that I refresh myself, in the cold shower, which instead of giving me goosebumps of torture, makes me put in the shoes of these eternal strangers, stripped of kindness. It is there that I sing and cry, that I pray and wash myself of the sifted things of the day, of the wickedness of the neighbors that I stop with salt and rosemary, it is also in the twilight that I revisit the old shoebox, filled with nostalgic faces, of golden moments. I am a chrysalis at dusk. But when night sets in, the warrior returns, the other side of peace, which I accompany with books, entertainment films and coffee. Eternal companions of my owl nights. And in the morning rays, I go barefoot, for my first cold shower. Dismayed. That of looking around and confirming that only in the trees and flowers, in the animals and stone walls is God and his huge legion of angels, erecting a barrier of light around us, so that I can still feel harmony, so that I can still connect to my heart, so that I rest in the natural beauty of all the tree children that I have created in this patch of refreshing shadows,  in this fruit season. 

Today I went down to the orchard, me and Kirie. The dogs barked in all directions, the ambulances with their alarming bells broke their eardrums, towards the end of my rectangle, persistently. It wasn't fire. It was, for sure, an accident and it has to have been serious or in jail, because there were a lot of ambulances. I took a metal bowl, to bring the apples and some peaches. I saw the plum trees, the tree of persimmons and quinces loaded and still green, the branches like arms yielding to the weight of the fruit. Suddenly, Kirie began barking aggressively, heading towards my house. At the rear, on the edge of the land, where the net ends, there was the mourner neighbor, bare-chested and pretending that he was not threatening the dog with his hands. I went to see. Not to see, but to be seen. So that I know that yes, that I know about your wanderings on private land, just as I am prepared to defend this land on this side of the network. I asked Kirie for silence. She understands everything and then told him. You don't attack. Only if it hurts you, when you enter. If it doesn't hurt you, just thieves, just call me. I'll do the rest. But it's not me. I won't do anything. The ground and the net will defend me. I must have been a miner in other times. Then I went to the barbecue where I renewed the water for the animals, washed the picked fruit. And while the excess was dripping, I picked up the last washing machine, properly folded. I heat up leftovers from lunch, while the apples and garlic bread bake in the oven. There is no visible love. Nor apparent, to the others. Only premonition and follow with caution. Today I cook love inside, so inside that whoever looks at me can never sense it, but on the outside, I make peace with clenched fists, ready to be an intervention soldier. And before dusk, dinner is served and tasted. And then the roasted apples with honey and two drops of liqueur are served almost cold before breakfast in the evening. And here she is, after the kitchen is tidy. And to draw up my intentions and warnings, so that, in case there is damage, they don't invent that I'm a dancer, but I've never danced. Their mistake. I'm a dancer, because I've always danced. In my imagination, I've traveled the world dancing to the music written by brilliant minds. I am the island and the sea that sustains it. Grandmother Bina, I hope the smell of roasted apples has reached heaven, but they have already cooked so many others that I will keep in the fridge. Tomorrow, I'll enjoy them for breakfast, thinking of you. I love you.