From an early age, the land where I was born was mentioned on my school homework. Misspelled but described with nostalgia and curiosity. Destiny made me move to the United States, and when it was possible I went to Connecticut.
Without expectations, I led to the indicated address, and in disbelief I contemplated what would accommodate me. A large wooden house, embedded in the middle of the forest. Everything was green. I could taste the homegrown aromatic herbs in the air and my, loving and happy, uncles awaited my embrace.
I chose the biggest and brightest room to sleep. Decorated with a swinging chair and photographs of, the once, 7 brothers, godchildren and nephews.
Here the dawn is early and when the first ray of sunshine kisses my eyelids, I hasten to wake up. Put a large t-shirt on, my hair in a messy bun and I run down the stairs. The smell of pancakes and fresh coffee invades my nostrils, but that scenery momentarily immobilizes me. I’m in the middle of the forest, inside a glazed cube. I walk down the last step, slow down the pace, and quietly open the porch doors. As if I didn’t want to frighten away that magnificent view. I walk down the spiral stairs, adorned with white roses, and step the wet grassy lawn. Standing on my toes I stretch my morning laziness, I hear the chirping of the birds and the sound of the leaves:
– Watch out for ticks! – My aunt shouts from the porch.
I take a deep breath, go up the stairs, and we all have breakfast together.
I visited the two houses that, in a distant past, have welcomed my family. A quartet that I do not remember belonging to, but that existed in those houses. He and she, who one day thought we would be happy there, were moved when I showed them where I was. Life goes round and round, and the baby who was stomping was now, across the street, 24 years later, reliving a memory erased by time. I was swallowed up by a feeling of peace, so far inexplicable. As if my roots and I were finally reunited, in the land where I was born.
The day is still half gone and I take the time to photograph, to contemplate the squirrels, who fight in the trees, to meditate and to write, while I swing in the hammock. My aunt struggles with the menu of the day, flipping through the Portuguese cookery magazines, my uncle watches the news and challenges me to a checkers game.
When the sun no longer kisses the treetops, we set the table on the porch, open the bottles and sharpen the cutlery. The conversations about the World Stories and my love life have no end and for some reason I have confided everything to them. And they to me. No modesty or age differences.
When the night comes just the two of us stand there, in the middle of a blue cloth lit by hundreds of stars and fireflies.
The weariness was weighing heavily. We packed up, went inside and talked about Alice, Mary Alice. The aunt blossoms, staring at the floor, the homesickness she feels and how much her death was harsh and unfair. She says she sees her not only in me and in my mother, but also in the flowers she plants in the garden. I listen to her and I remember my grandmother. Living with my aunt is like reviewing my grandmother in the flesh. If she had not left at age 59, she would be like that, we’d both be like that. My grandmother would have seen me become a woman. So much advice would give me. So much that we were left to live:
– “See this here? It was your grandmother! She never knew how to close this door, and how stubborn she was … “- My aunt pointed to the splinter in the closet.
Then she showed me a white dish:
– “It was hers, whenever I use it I know that Mary Alice is with me.” – She whispered as she hugged the crockery.
I burst into tears. It is inconceivable the strength of this woman, who died 14 years ago, and still present in the lives of all those around me. So alive in me and so responsible for who I am. A little Alice.
My aunt hugged me, wiped my tears with her thumbs, kissed my forehead and went to sleep.
Lying in the huge bed, I stared at the fireflies crashing against the window. I cried until I fell asleep, wishing one day to be half the woman my Alice was. At dawn, that sunbeam woke me up and the day began again.
Being with my uncles in the forest house is my source of rejuvenation. There are countless wine bottles, snacks, stories and laughter that we share. Only here I feel at home. And when my emotions are all over the place and my heart tightens, I’m led here. Oh, Connecticut… you are my cure!
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