Resolvi ceder. Criei este blog logo que me mudei para San Francisco. Mas nunca tive coragem de postar.
Depois de um longo tempo no Brasil, e de acompanhar muitos blogs de pessoas queridas, fiquei com uma pulguinha intenáutica.
Vou aqui, devagar, mineirinha, postando o que der vontade, quando der vontade...
Começo por um texto que escrevi para meu curso de Creative Writing (uff, um grande desafio).
"Share", pois é isso que vim fazer por aqui.
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It was hot. I was seven years old. My Korean friend Kelly and I were walking home in a large avenue. We were wearing our gray cotton uniforms, with a big school symbol on the chest. I could see my older sister on the other side of the avenue. It was time for me to cross the street to go home. I hugged Kelly goodbye. A truck passed by. Its big wheels made a loud noise and left a smell of burnt fuel. My right foot stepped into the street, followed by my left foot. They were protected by my white Bamba sneakers. I heard breaks. The world turned black. I heard my name. I heard crying.
It was cold. I woke up into various strange faces. I had no idea where I was. I was lying in a very cold, hard surface, and my back hurt so much. There was a bright, cold light on my face. A man in glasses said my parents were coming, and that they would be there any minute. I could feel the tears of fear on my face and an acid taste in my mouth. Where was I? What had happened? I desperately cried out loud for my mother, but no one seemed to notice.
It was warm. I opened my eyes and saw my mother, my father, my sister, my friend Kelly. I was lying in a nice, soft, comfortable surface, and I could feel the pillows under my head. My back did not hurt that much anymore. My mother gave me some grape juice. It was sweet and cool. My father gave me a broken piece of black plastic, apparently a part of some bumper I broke with my head. Good, my head did not hurt from it. I could hear the familiar voices, see familiar smiles, and even though it smelled like a hospital, I knew I was going to be fine. I was not scared anymore.
She remembers the sun. She was walking on the big avenue, coming back from school. She liked to walk on one side of the street, her sister liked to walk on the other side. That day she just crossed; she was upset for some silly reasons. She could see her younger sister on the other side of the street, talking to her friend Kelly. It was hot, sunny, and it was time for her sister to come join her. She remembers a truck passing by, making this loud engine noise and leaving a trace of dark smoke. The world turned silent. She saw the body hitting the car. She saw her little sister fly. She saw her fall.
She remembers the shadow. The phone took forever to dial, the phone number would not come to her mind and those tones of ringing had never been so acute. Her face felt wet, her hands were shaking, and her eyes were still seeing that little flying body. When her mother answered the phone, she couldn’t hear anymore. All she could do was tell the truth: “My sister is dead, the car went over her, my sister is dead.”
She remembers the white. They were all there: her mother, her father, Aunt Marcia, Uncle Roberto. In this little waiting room, she was seating on a white, cold sofa, holding a hard pillow. She did not want to go into the waiting room. She just wanted to sit there, with her thoughts focused, in her own solitude. She remembers the moment she saw her sister’s eyes open. There was a feeling there, a big, loud, giant sigh of the soul. Her sister was not dead after all.
It was 2005, and many years had gone by since that moment. I was sitting at a bar, drinking a beer with my sister. For the first time in all those years, we were talking about the accident. I described my memories. She described hers. We did not know so much. I hadn’t heard of guilt or flying bodies. She hadn’t heard of hot, cold and warm. I hadn’t heard of sun, shadows and white. She hadn’t heard of black, and I hadn’t heard of silence.
