In Ann Arbor
there was a flower
in the kitchen
of my house.
It was a white
orchid.
I called her Ana. I don’t
know why. I just like
the name
Ana. Like I like Ann
Arbor.
During spring break Ana and
I were alone in the house, the
only living romantics in
Ann Arbor for a
week. It was a
nice, calm week.
I remember reading Ruy Belo’s
Elogio de Maria Teresa, and
Alexandra Lucas Coelho’s eulogy for
the same Maria Teresa, while
sitting in the kitchen table
in front of Ana.
(Nothing to
do with this, but I just
remembered that
I was told a few moments ago of a very
powerful sentence by
Madre Teresa about love and
pain. Isn’t life
just
something? It is
what it) I
cried. I’m so sentimental, sometimes.
Other times I’m just crazy, like
when I’m walking in S. João da Mata,
singing Wonderwall by Oasis, to
my cellphone.
There are two orchids at
my mother’s house, in
Lisbon. One is soft purple, the
other is white and rouge.
They’ve both been living there for a
while, in the corridor of the house, where
there is some light light coming
in. I remember last summer seeing the
purple one dying, and then, as winter
came, I watched how it blossomed
again. This summer I watched as the
white and rouge blossomed. Now it is
dying, just like Ana’s flowers died, bit
by bit, after spring break ended.
That’s life. They will blossom
again. The next time I come to visit
I will make sure to notice their growth, to
follow their blossoming. Maybe I will name
them, share their growth with someone who,
like me, might care about the fate, pain and
love of romantic and
fragile creatures such as orchids. Maybe
yes, maybe
no, quem
sabe? What it is
is what it is, and what it
is is very strong (I said that, on
the phone, in
São João da Mata, moments after
confirming that, yes, I
was crazy, but only
sometimes)