My blue boy

 

To pay homage.

You died thirty-nine years ago today. After a quiet afternoon, between recordings, music and confessions, after a dinner of spaghetti with turkey steak that you liked so much, the exchanges and baldrocas, after ringing the bell, your friends from the villas telling you that they were all there, that the last ones who had gone on vacation were all there, you asked for a few coins and ran like a bird,  in your band. They told us that they were going to Londrina, the confectionery near the fire department. I don't remember exactly what they were going to do there, if they buy bombocas or gorilla gum, I don't know. I had just turned seventeen. Grandfather Rodrigo had left us in July, on Uncle Domingos' birthday. You decided to go after him. At this time, you were no longer here, Raquel had already brought you to the entrance of the villas and ran to tell us that you had leaned against the gate of the label factory, next to the firefighters and that you put your hand on your chest and fell. It was a heart attack. It was a disaster. It was what it had to be. Judging later, by the tapes you recorded, talking about our father, the medal you had made me promise that I would give you, with Our Lady of Fatima, the silver medal with a blue veil. I didn't imagine that I would take it off my chest so quickly, to deposit it in yours, without even being able to appreciate the medal. You took it. At this hour, you were lifeless, but we were not told. At this time, the urgency of S. João was different. With a huge garage door, always open and the door to the emergency room was back-and-forth, it hit you on the head, your stretcher prevented it from closing completely and every time someone entered, that door hit you, but you were no longer here. Neither the life you had inside you, nor laughter, nor honey. You were just another black, cyanated, blue body, because you had been born blue and no one, as long as they could, paid attention to what our mother and father said. Dr. Liberio gave a certificate of stupidity to our mother, when she asked, you were still two years old, to do exams, electrocardiograms, and she told me that even our father, before he died, said to our mother: our son has my problem, Eva. Dad knew and when he left, you were one year old. Mom insisted that you acknowledge your problem. Until that little age of two years no one recognized you at all. Except for an enlarged liver, except this and that. You grew in a normal percentile. You couldn't run, you couldn't play ball, you couldn't ride a bike, you couldn't be molested, you couldn't spend sleepless nights. You could not live, except at the slow speed that was the one you prepared to accept over time and you never succeeded. Between thousands of trips to the hospital, epistaxis, surgeries, no one could bully you, in a more severe way, or kick you, as they did with you so many times, that you would turn black. Tired. Exhausted. Because you were a blue boy. I remember the day you were born. Mother, father and Mr. Coelho, who was a doorman at the hospital, came to Penafiel, Aunt Lurdes' house, ate a nice roast and walked a lot. They arrived home close to midnight. There was no time for midwives, says the mother, there was no time, because you wanted to arrive and you broke the veil. I was anxious to hear a baby in that house. My younger brother was going to be born. It was just after midnight and you were born fast. I know who was at home attending the birth, the father, who when he saw our mother distressed, must have called his closest sister, Aunt Camila and with me was our brother and Vitó, Aunt Camila's son. I still remember what he was doing. That I hit him in the face. And he did the same to Antero. And time seemed to have stopped. Until I heard you cry. I left our room and ran to the room where you had screamed. And it was a joy that had no end. You cried, but we laughed. I knocked on the door and asked Dad if we could see you. And he said, go ahead, wait a little longer because it's being cleaned. The mother was lying down, weakened. But you were wrapped in what seemed to me to be white gauze, but it was a blanket that covered you enough times later. After you were born, we always celebrate your birthday with joy, but you always at the speed possible which was slow and there were many times that you secretly pierced the slowness and ran, and rode your bike and played ball. Often. And all these tasks, no matter how much joy they brought you, that of being like the other children, soon ended, because they left you defeated. And you were dying during the years when we thought you were alive. Dr. Liberio never ignored our mother again, after a trip to the hospital they almost lost you with recurrent bleeding. On your bedside table, there was a book called The Transplanted Heart, by Peter Hawthorne, which you wanted to keep with you, by your side, because after a series of episodes that worsened your health, the cardiologist spoke to you and mother and said that you should receive a new heart, that you didn't need to decide right away,  but that you had to. And that it depended on you. That if our mother decided for you and you didn't want to, it would be of no use. And we heard you say several times that you would only want another heart if you were really dying. If it really had to be. And it didn't have to be. You didn't want it to be. And you died slowly, always rejecting that possibility. Rita, who our mother picked up from the Convent in Santa Catarina, near the current Ribadouro and who took care of us before coming Lourdes, is the one who often told you about being operated. And that caressed your hair, in her lap, when your teeth hurt and there was no one who felt brave enough to defy death in your mouth. You died a little every day, maybe when you slept and we heard the drum hit the pillow to confirm that you were alive, maybe at that time of night was when you were most alive. Because you rested and we could confirm that your heart was beating in a rhythmic way on that bed. If your body were among us, this year you would have turned fifty. You never stayed long enough to become a man. That's how you wanted to stay, little blue and sweet. And not forgotten. The angel who came into our life and walked from it eleven years later, without complaints, without crying, without blemishes. Only angels are like that. All families have, for sure, beautiful dates and others that they don't. Dad was our first 9/11 and you followed in his footsteps.

A kiss from your mother and sister. Give them all our kisses.