Sometimes the angels put Sunday afternoon to music

 

It was always time to interrupt the writing. Either because the machine ended the program and the clothes didn't spread on their own, or because it was snack or lunch time, or because I gave her that candy and found her in the fetal position on the sofa, a mother girl and had to put the blanket on her, before the sneezes became a flu or a cold,  that at her age, it already left ills. And he already had so many ills, that if they didn't add up to more than what already existed. That it was necessary to have garbage bags for the big ones, that it was necessary to call charities, that there were clothes and crockery that they wanted to get rid of. Of the fatigue of accumulation, of the splinters of those many woes that were typical of humans, tired of the deceptions, the lies of others, of the services of tea and crystals. That the wall was darkened in the museum of poetry with which he treated his ancestors, that he thought he needed them and esteemed them more than the living and the other bored, that they circulated and dared to peek through the net of the property, what a nuisance, what sadness, not having money in the bank to erect walls of privacy,  that another notebook was needed, to write about his concrete need to end the abysses of that land, of the abysmal people. And to forget the people, come an easel! My brother had mentioned in front of her, well remembered the painting, the brushes, the gouaches, the charcoal pencils, the mechanical pencils, the canvas support, that if you bought two of the same, yes she paints to burn the hours of leisure,but you paint to push the depression, a depression with cats and owls, with rivers and bridges and thickets and courage and bravery and no one quiets you down, no one holds you in the pen, makes you stop writing, neither winter nor summer, to a hidden place, between the distaff and the spindle, there, in the cavalum,  that they were even well used by their grandmother and aunts, and, if a text began, they would call me again, go get the glasses that your mother doesn't see, that television also tires and that the animals have undone everything in minutes, the mattresses on the sun loungers, the carpet of childhood, that this thing of being a senior advances,  Even the seconds push us on the descents, that I look at the Chinese's clock, standing still and I am surprised how dare time not to give me shelter. And they complain daddy, complain that I'm not fast, that I'm only well lying down, I could, the column massacred, the sleepless and restless nights, the synapses eternally weakened by the crossing of ghosts since the sun goes down. Dad, take me away, bring me the cloak you gave me to warm me at night, to make me invisible to the living who call me. Dad, fate wanted me to like the dead more than the living, yes, they are the ones I like the most, who dig rivers of wisdom within me, who fill me with the smells of flowers and perfumes of bien être, father, aunt has returned. He came with his hair tied up, like in a bun, and carried documents in his hand. The aunt, with her mouth, but without sound, regurgitated information that I did not know, that I preferred to continue not knowing, but this of giving space to the other living ones, also brought me the dimension of you and the importance and priority. I cannot postpone writing, nor corroborate any thesis that states that one dies. No, you don't die. You never die. Except when the water in the jars needs to be changed. I wanted someone to forget that I am prodigal in the art of deciphering auras. And this one came sanctified by the bien être and you know how much I appreciate that aroma. Father, what should I do with myself, with me, with my hands that are filled with chores and insignificant things, that I do, I push everything to yesterday or abandon the needs of those present, I abdicate myself or put myself on the shopping block list, of what is missing, to me who lack time to give them a voice,  Mine that is hoarse and that hides in the we. Dad, my mind is bubbling, if I give him a break, another destination, between hanging his weekend clothes, among the agricultural implements stored in the old house, I still have pendants, Dad, I still have so many pendants, so many agonizing routines, Why don't you come and bring me that magic cloak, which hides me and prolongs me in a time other than this, Dad, I'm so tired, Dad, Dad, Dad, my Dad, that if it weren't for your eyes smiling at me, I would have already given up on everything. And you remain with me, sometimes more Rodrigo than Francisco, but always with me, always, as before. And then, when I wearily enter the night, wanting rest from the darkness, and you come to peek at me, I ask you for the cloak, father, do you remember it?

Dad, I want to leave, Dad, did you hear? Father, tell me the story of the angels who instead of falling, rose and flew, father.