Returning is always leaving
Maria de Nazaré Barreto Trindade
He was walking down the street in a 40 degree sun. No space in front of him tasted like homesickness. She expected to count on smiles and tears. The return is always broken. In a very short time, it reaches Maria’s window. It is alone. She searches the galleries of memories for a sentimentality that is lost. In the dark, in the cold, dark cellar of her memory. She sees a face. Hair loose in the wind.
Space unfolded in colors from before.
Loses the smile. Under unfocused lenses awaits spring.
Autumn has arrived. And it brought with it certainties of gray. You laugh at agony, you laugh at fear. The asphalt seems to burn his bare feet.
Agony prevails over pain. Where did Maria go? Which star ended. She searches among pieces of storage, smells, fantasies, flavors of sleepless nights, exhaling perfumes on the wicker mat. Stifling chandeliers that softened the night with fine lights.
She runs her hand over the shiny complexion of a yellowish photo. Forward.
She has nothing left. The vague silence of yesteryear, broken by the murmur of the street. The scorching king who takes all the space and sticks his lightning sword in the soft face. She walks towards the door.
Broken and dirty.
It is not entry, it is exit. It is a path that should not be taken. Goes into.
The sofa in the living room is bathed in mold. Once a couch of whispers, an accomplice in kisses and waiting. Now, empty. The wall holds pieces of those who are gone. Crumpled papers on the desk reveal doubts, uncertainties, ended loves, old loves. It sharpens the senses. Take a deep breath in the direction of the open window.
The port has a smell of loneliness and the sea. Soon the air is filled with a warm breeze that invades you to the depths of your soul.
Maria is gone … she left a trail of love. She left pieces of good loving. Songs lost in the back of the day. And now, the marks of life stand out. She looks at the void. See the bush, weed that creeps every bit of the garden of yesteryear. At eleven o’clock
wither, daisies fall apart. The stubborn sunflower spins in search … of light. Look for traces. He asks the street: where did Maria go. The wind responds by whispering in her ear: she left without fear, without delay. He took with him the joy of yesteryear. The street was left behind. O
port was left behind. Love was gone. Now it floated.