Opera - Viena - Austria - May 2023 

 The Eyes of the Marble Lady, 

At the bus stop, people waited. 

Leaves swirled in the air. 

Yellow petals rained from the trees. 

Warm days… Shiny days… Rainy days…

Seated on the stone bench,  waiting for the morning bus,

The elegant lady resembled a marble statue. 

Her face was flawlessly beautiful.

Like those depicted in art books.

With my nun school uniform and school bag in hand, 

I too awaited the bus, 

A curious kid stealing glances... 

The Marble Lady's beauty radiated around hollow eyes. 

I remember smiling at her, her lips reciprocating. 

Not her eyes… no! 

No! Never her eyes.

There was a sadness in them.

Like two beautiful lakes on a cloudy day. 

Carved on stone, silent...staring... so much sorrow.

I recall feeling a pang of sadness for her.

Sometimes, an urge to hug her, 

The lady  seemed to care for me,

A connection I couldn't explain.

Occasionally, I managed to sit beside her.

We never exchange words. 

One day, she did not show up at the bus stop. 

One week…One month. 

The years passed…

I grew up...

I matured into an adult woman.

A married lady with kids.

One day, I joined a Facebook group.

Browsing through  photos,

My eyes froze...

There she was! The marble lady! 

The same beautiful lady from long ago.

Now, in her golden age, still glowing.

I couldn't believe it was her! 

The marble lady emerged smiling! 

She had a name!.

I smiled looking at her photos.

Her eyes are no longer hollow.

No more the marble lady. 

What caused the sorrowful eyes of long ago?

I will never know. 

Now, her eyes smile,

And my eyes smile too.

Gina Sousa - Oakville - 2009 

VS

Smile 

 My short story was read at CJ Cafe in Oakville on June 19, 2009 

First published on  Brian Henry's Blog 

https://quick-brown-fox-canada.blogspot.com/search?q=stitch+in+time 

"A Stitch in Time,"  by Virginia Sousa 

I was born in Angola, a Portuguese colony located in Sub-Saharan West Africa in the charming seaport town of Lobito. Due to the warm climate, I didn’t require woolen garments and I certainly never had any desire to take up knitting. On the contrary. At one point, I seriously considered adopting the traditional attire of the native girls and going topless. However, I did take up other “crafty” projects. Angola was part of the Portuguese Empire and I grew up during the New State years when Salazar’s government praised “The Woman” and called her the “Goddess of the Family” and “The Pillar of Society”. In his idea of a perfect nation, Salazar envisioned the woman exclusively as a wife and mother. Working outside the home was not considered feminine. In tune with our dictator’s blueprint for my gender, by the age of six, I was learning a variety of crafts and I began the process of filling a Chinese camphor chest from Macau. In it went a miscellaneous selection: crochet tea towels, fine needlecraft sheets, embroideries of all sorts, and other things from remote places. Such a dowry was the perfect bait for a future husband … or, should I say, mother-in-law. But, Salazar had in mind much more when he encouraged the so-called pillars of society – the mothers and wives across the country. Without even noticing it, they were contributing to the wealth of the economy by keeping the linen factories in mainland Portugal and throughout the empire producing tones of fabrics and yarns! To tell you the truth, I still have the Chinese camphor chest and some of those linens and I proudly use them to decorate my Canadian home. And when I’m gone, they will pass on to my daughter-in-law. The thing is I don’t know if she’d really like them. They’re a nightmare to iron. Just to straighten them you need to use spray starch and it takes forever…. And let’s face it, forever doesn’t fit the fast-paced framework of a Goddess today! By now, you can envision the hours of creative work we girls had to endure. I say endure, because living in beautiful Lobito and being part of the late 60s generation my mind was already veering off in another direction. In Africa, surrounded by the freedom of the vast outdoors, I engaged in all types of physical activity. And the beach was right across the street from my house. This meant that every day the fresh, blue waters of the Atlantic came in direct competition with Salazar’s vision of the feminine ideal. Sitting on our balcony, watching the sea and hearing my friend’s voices and giggles floating on the breeze, was a perfect torment. I remember power crocheting, by feeding the fine yarn through my sweaty little fingers in a frenzied frustration to try and join my friends. But if my work wasn’t up to standard, my mom would make me redo it. “Gina, what are you doing rushing your crochet work? It is through your work people will see how neat you are! Do it again. I don’t care if your friends are at the beach. You are not going anywhere until I say so. ” My sister Carla – Queen of crochet – immediately would tease me and say, “Your boyfriend is swimming with Rita!” She was never in a hurry to go out. Oh! But, that is another story. By the way, among the girls and ladies of the nation, there was this talk about the dictator - still a bachelor himself - and the fact that no woman in the Empire had big enough chests to impress him! Maybe he was allergic to the aroma of camphor! Or maybe he could not handle big chests! Weird man. And then one day my life changed. The dictator died. Portugal lost its colonies. The war in Angola forced our family to move to the cold northern hemisphere. On the Azorean Islands, my body shivered and screamed for warm clothes. Gone were the days when I dressed in shorts and envied the nude bodies of the native girls. Money was scarce, so I decided to crotchet my own pullover. After all, I’d made countless tea towels. Why not a pullover? No big deal! However, I was disappointed with my first effort. The crocheted pullover was not fluffy and it looked distorted. When I tried it on, it looked weird. At first, I thought it might be the cheap mirror in my room. It was as if my torso was sideways, my shoulders were out of place. I looked as if I had some sort of problem with my spine. I am not the type of person to give up. Although the wool was almost disintegrating in my fingers, I redid the pullover … several times. But the more I tried the worse it went. And so I decided to learn how to knit. As they say, “While in Rome… The Carnation Revolution in Portugal occurred in 1974. That coup–d’état transformed the country’s dictatorship into a socialist system that was drifting perilously towards communism. Two years later the government nationalized most of the private companies and the Azorean Airline Company where I worked at the time was no exception. As employees, we had the time of our lives. There was no pressure, and more and more benefits came our way each day. There were rights for everything! Can you imagine? We even had the right to knit between phone calls! All the girls at the airline knitted between phone calls. I was working for the reservations department and during the winter, the influx of calls slowed to a trickle. Even our supervisor worked with wool around her neck and needles in her fingers. We always had something to occupy our hands and alleviate our boredom while we waited for the phone to ring. These were the golden days of airlines and unions. I was 20 years old and newly married. Love was in the air! It was at this time the seed of Salazar’s goddess ideal, implanted during my childhood, took root and blossomed. I decided to knit something special for my husband! How difficult could it be? One of my co-workers kindly took it upon herself to be my knitting teacher. And so began my career as a knitting wife/ reservation agent for the Azorean airline company! Excited about my new project, I bought skeins of yarn, needles, and a knitting magazine. Between phone calls, my co-workers helped me decide the design for the pullover and by mid-September, I began my project targeting its completion for Christmas. The yarn was a fluffy tobacco brown and the pattern was an elegant rib stitch. If I could manage not to strangle myself in the process, all would be well. My husband is a big man, so there was little room for error. After carefully measuring one of his shirts to ensure a perfect fit, I worked diligently for the next few months. My co-workers thought the pullover was getting too big. I kept assuring them, that my husband was not like most of the Azorean guys. He was a robust man. His body had developed well under the African sun. I have to admit, I was a little worried. But not about it being too big. What if I’d measured incorrectly and it was too small? I wanted to surprise my husband, so I never took my knitting home. The pullover was getting heavier by the day and it covered my entire lap. What a cozy feeling! The office was cold and the pullover warmed me up. Exactly one week before Christmas, the pullover was finally finished. I was very proud of my work. My co-workers admired it too and said, “Wow! Your husband must be a giant?” I bought colorful Christmas paper carefully wrapped the pullover in it, and put the huge package under our tree. When Christmas morning came, it was cold and rainy. But, nothing could dampen my spirits! I was so excited to see my dear hubby wearing his new pullover –handmade by me – to Christmas mass! However, when he opened his gift, he couldn’t understand all my excitement. “Ok! It’s a pullover,” he said, his eyes still puffy from sleep and the Port wine of Christmas Eve. “What’s so special about it?” “Do you like the color? And the yarn? ” I asked, somehow expecting him to realize I’d made it. “Yes dear! Of course, I do. Where did you buy it? Seems a little bit too big…” “I made it myself! For you! I’m sure it’ll fit you perfectly. I took the measurements from one of your shirts. It is perfect to the centimeter, my dear.” The anxiety of the moment had me fluttering around him like a butterfly. “Oh! You made it! That was very nice of you! So much work! Is it crochet? ” “No, silly, it is knitting. Put it on!” I said, with an enthusiastic smile splashed all over my face. I helped him put it on. There was a moment of silence as we both admired my handiwork. Then our eyes met and we burst out laughing. I had been wrong. My husband was not such a big guy after all! The sleeves were down to his knees and the pullover looked itself like a mini dress! No wonder it took me months to finish it! Now I could understand the mesmerized faces of my co-workers. Ah well, enthusiasm can be blinding. My dreams of knitting did not die that Christmas day! Thirty-two years later when I found out I was going to be a grandma, I decided it was time to pick up my trusty needles again! After all, I was living in Canada the knitting country of the north. I bought white and yellow fluffy wool, some baby fashion magazines, and started a jacket. “Are you knitting Gina?” My husband asked one winter night as we watched the news. “Yes, I am for our grandchild. See this pattern? I’m knitting this design here…yes this one.” I said my enthusiasm for knitting re-kindled. “Hum, is it for a newborn or for a college graduate?” My husband muttered. This time my enthusiasm waned and I didn’t finish my little project. My grandson is now three years old – too big for the little jacket. But I haven’t given up entirely - I hope to finish it before they decide to have another baby. Or, on second thought, maybe I’ll take my husband’s hint and complete it for my grandson’s graduation. In the meantime, I am NOW knitting words, experimenting with new patterns and materials like this one. 

 And so it’s to you I dedicate this tapestry of words. I am lucky, to be part of an excellent group who share my passion. Thank you for your support. 

****** 

 Virginia Sousa, also known as Gina, was born in Angola, southwest Africa. Then, one sunny day, a guerrilla liberation movement declared independence for Angola, and Virginia was forced, by the circumstances, to move to Lisbon, Portugal. She moved to Canada as an adult. From the comfort of the airplane, she observed vast beaches of white sand from Yarmouth to Toronto – just like Africa!. Only when she landed did she realize that all that white sand was actually snow. In her thirties and forties, Gina contributed weekly to “Voice" a Portuguese newspaper in Toronto. She recently submitted a book written in Portuguese to a Portuguese Publishing house and is learning how to be patient with editors. She spends hours on her computer crossing Portuguese and English words in a great embrace of multiculturalism. On June 18, 2009, she gave a reading of “A Stitch in Time” at CJ’s Cafe. Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here. Posted by Brian Henry at 5:14 PM Labels: All literary, Memoir/true story

Smile

VS

 Words.

Who are they?

Why are they here?

Sometimes,

They are like crystal aliens, floating in air,

Beautiful and strangely sweet.

Other times, 

They are cruel beings,

Warriors of war,

Ready to kill and destroy.

Be aware of words! 

Those amazing life forms, 

Can trigger peace and joy,

Love and Harmony

War and rage,

Hate and Chaos.

They are alive,

They are powerful.

They live forever.

Who listens to them?

We all do.

We all get possessed by them.

We all carry them in our souls.

We all live them .

We all fall in love with them.

We are them.

Gina Sousa 

Oakville Sunday afternoon - 21 February 2009. 

VS

Smile

The photo was taken with my iPhone - March 2023 - At Sagrada Familia - Barcelona. 

Selos de Angola 

Colecção de Selos, e o mundo que o bisavô Inácio me deu a conhecer 

 Hoje, dedico o meu blog ao meu "bisavô", e padrinho de casamento; Inácio Rodrigues, que nasceu logo no início do século XX , na primeira semana de Janeiro de 1900. A vida , tem maneiras de nos oferecer presentes preciosos. Eu, recebi um desses presentes. Num dia tive de presente um “bisavô". O meu bisavô, era um homem grande, muito grande mesmo! Tinha mãos grandes, pés grandes, era bochechudo, e até cabelos brancos ralos que despontavam á volta de um carequinha brilhante. Era também muito pachorrento, nunca o vi nas corridas e acima de tudo era muito paciente comigo, criança muito viva e activa com bichos de carpinteiro … A primeira vez que o vi, senti-me ainda mais pequenina do que eu era. Devo dizer, que fiquei mesmo, um pouco intimidada, mas, ao mesmo tempo senti que nos íamos dar muito bem. Meu bisavô estava viúvo e vivia na altura em casa da filha.( A terceira avó que eu ganhei na minha vida. Mas essa história linda da minha terceira avó vou contar noutro.) O facto é que, perdida e achada estava na casa daqueles avós. Lá em casa, acordávamos com as galinhas, como dizia minha avó. Meu avô Ivens, saía para a oficina muito cedinho. Antes de ele sair, tomávamos o mata-bicho juntos. Depois, eu e minha avó íamos para o quintal tender a horta, e, as flores lindas que havia naquele imenso jardim. Dali a uma hora, minha avó dizia-me: 

"Tenho que ir, o meu paizinho já deve estar levantado . Vou prepar-lhe o mata-bicho." Gostava muito de a ouvir chamar “paizinho” aquele homenzarrão, já século. Era muito doce. 

Eu ficava a cabriolar no jardim, e, dali a pouco ia para dentro de casa para ir ver os selos do “avô” Inácio ( todos os primos diziam avô e eu dizia avô também ) . Subia as escadas do quintal a correr . A avó estava normalmente na cozinha a destinar o almoço. 

"Então miúda, já te cansaste de brincar? Onde vais a correr?" - perguntava a minha avó. 

"O avô já matabichou ?" - respondia eu rapidinho e sem parar. 

"Já pois. Faz tempo! Está como de costume, de roda dos selos. Se fores para ao pé dele tem cuidado não lhe dês cabo dos selos nem dos miolos. E olha as mãos. Tambula conta com tua vida."- dizia-me minha avó com aqueles olhos que riam . E sorriamos as duas como compinchas. "Eu sei". - dizia baixinho como se fosse um segredo. "Ele deixa-me ajudar." - respondia eu, toda convencida das minhas habilidades filatélicas. E continuava, directinha ao quarto de banho, lavar muito bem as mãos, com sabão LifeBoy, tirar a areia das unhas, com a escovinha, e, ter a certeza que ficavam bem limpinhas. Gostava muito do cheirinho daquele sabonete cor de rosa. Depois de limpar muito bem com a toalha, ia toda contente ter com o bisavô Inácio. Encontrava-o, sempre sentado na secretária, com muitos envelopes com selos . Uns cheios de selos , outros envelopes com selos colados que ele com muito cuidado molhava para descolar os selinhos. Alguns eram muito coloridos e tão bonitos. 

"Olá avô. Bom dia. Dormiu bem?" - Dava-lhe um beijinho e ficava ali á espera de ouvir ele dizer alguma coisa. È que ás vezes, ele estava tão enfronhado nos selos, que nem respondia. Só quando lhe dava o beijinho dizia: 

"Olá miúda estás aqui? Queres ajudar ?" - perguntava pachorrentamente. 

"Quero pois. Já lavei as mãos." - e estendia as mãos que ele inspecionava para assegurar que eu mexer nos preciosos selos. Depois, com uma paciência de Jó, tornava a repetir para mim como se tiravam os selos colados ao papel sem os estragar, como a serrinha a volta dos selos não pudia ser cortada , como era imprescindível fazer tudo muito devagarinho, para conseguirmos ter os selos impecáveis. Eu ficava ali a olhar para ele inquieta para pegar nos selos. Por fim, lá me deixava pegar nos selos. Dava-me para a mão os mais fáceis. Toda contente , e orgulhosa por me deixar ajudar, tirava os selos com muito cuidado e muito lentamente e ia olhando para ele a ver se estava a fazer bem. Ele caladinho olhava para ter a certeza que não lhe dava cabo dos selos. Sem dar por mim, aprendia, que estar entretida, nāo era só pular e brincar . Era também fazer coisas assim, que nos ensinavam a descobrir um mundo desconhecido. O avô, Inácio, tinha uma colecção impressionante de selos. Adorava, estar sentada ao lado dele, e ouvi-lo entusiasmado a mostrar os selos de várias partes do mundo; Angola, Moçambique, Guiné, São Tomé, Açores, Madeira, Portugal e até Timor… e tinha também de tantos outros países do mundo até da Austrália. 

"Como é que arranja estes selos todos ?" - perguntava curiosa. 

"Olha o teu pai é um dos que me arranja muitos.A companhia dele tem negócios com muitos países. Mas eu tenho muitos amigos e conhecidos e todos contribuem para esta coleção." 

"Então tem muitos amigos, não é?" - continuava eu toda perguntadora. 

"Sim, amigos e conhecidos, e escrevo e recebo muitas cartas." - dizia ele a sorrir. 

" Eu também tenho muitos amigos". dizia eu toda contente. 

O mundo abria-se para mim, ali,naqueles momentos,com o meu avô e através daqueles pequeninos quadradinhos de papel, com imagens de pássaros, animais, pessoas, mapas, pedras preciosas, enfim. E as horas passavam, sem darmos por ela .Sem dar por ela, eu, aprendia muitas lições a ao mesmo tempo. O que aprendi naquelas manhãs, com o meu bisavô, só anos mais tarde, me apercebi, terem sido lições de organização e paciência, liçoēs se comunidade, de amizade, de geografia do mundo, que me ajudaram ao longo da minha vida. Hoje, na minha reforma,sinto que aprendi com ele quanto importante é, termos amigos, termos uma comunidade, e termos algo que gostamos de fazer para nos preencher os muitos momentos de vácuo, que o vácuo de não termos um emprego nos deixa. Obrigada querido bisavô e padrinho. Foste, e és ainda, um presente precioso que recebi. VS Smile

Acho que aquele fulano roubou algo á senhora … O dia estava bonito. Era pelas 4 da tarde .
Estávamos em Paris há quase uma semana. Já tínhamos visto muito, e, com os joelhos a gemer chegámos em frente á Torre Eiffel. Tinham-nos dito que aquele local ali mesmo do outro lado da ponte era ideal para fotografias. O rio Sena,a ponte direitinha á Torre ... lindo enquadramento. Para meu desapontamento, o meu telefone , estava sem baterias e eu tinha-o arrumado na mochila . Como gosto sempre de tirar fotos com o meu maridinho em lugares bonitos que visitamos , pedi-lhe o telefone. O meu telefone , tinha uma corrente que segurava o telefone ao pulso. O meu marido achava que não era preciso andar acorrentado. Deu-me o telefone para a mão. Eu quase que tirei a minha corrente para pôr no telefone dele, mas , teria que abrir a mochila ali no meio da multidão . Achamos que não seria boa ideia. Sendo assim , pus-me a tirar fotos, feliz por estar num sítio tão bonito . O Iphone do meu marido estava com bastante bateria e até aproveitei para filmar . A minha Gopro também estava sem bateria e eu teria que parar para mudar a bateria se a queria usar para fazer umas filamagens. Muito complicado para quem estava cansada e ainda por cima sem lugar privado para mudar baterias, abrir mochilas etc.

A multidão era enorme. Gente de todas as etnias e com falar e vestir diferente. Todos contentes por estarem ali, em Paris, a tirar fotos ao rio Sena e á Torre Eiffel . Como o dia estava lindo, tínhamos pensado ir a pé ao longo do rio Sena até ao Museu do Louvre. Contudo, as pernas estavam a ficar pesadas , e, como estávamos mesmo ao pé da paragem de autocarro resolvemos apanhar o autocarro que estava mesmo a parar ali. Havia muita gente na paragem. O autocarro já vinha cheinho. Eu preferia ter esperado por outro. Meu marido insistiu em irmos naquele. Afinal se queríamos tomar vantagem do último dia lindo e ir ainda a outros sítios seria melhor apanhar o autocarro. Acabei por concordar. O autocarro era mesmo sardinha em lata . Com muito empurrão lá entramos. Eu, e um senhor bem parecido que subiu a escada do autocarro ao mesmo tempo que eu, ficamos em pé ao lado do motorista. O meu marido nas escadas coladinho á porta. Na paragem seguinte, a porta abriu e meu marido teve que sair do autocarro para o fulano bem parecido que estava mesmo coladinho a mim se puder esquivar e sair do autocarro. Logo que ele saiu, muito apressado, uma senhora que estava com o marido e o filho sentada na primeira fila do autocarro diz alto : “ Acho que aquele fulano roubou algo á senhora. “ e ao dizer isso ela olhou para mim. Eu, fiquei primeiro sem saber se ela estava na realidade a falar comigo. Surpresa por ouvir uma voz desconhecida a dirigir-se a mim em português , e ainda por cima num autocarro em Paris e para além disso a falar de um roubo respondi meia atarantada : “ Desculpe a quem se refere ? ” A mim ? Não . Eu tenho a carteira aqui á frente, e, os meus bolsos todos tēem fechos… ” e enquanto respondia , olhei muito naturalmente para as outros passageiros ao meu lado, que olhavam todas para mim. E a senhora portuguesa tornou a insistir: “ É melhor ver bem. Eu quase que jurava que quando a senhora se mexeu para dar espaço para ele passar , o sacanita pôs a mão no seu bolso e por isso estava apressado a sair! São uns sabidōes . “ Eu, ainda surpresa com todo este desenrolar de acontecimentos, abro o fecho do meu colete, meto a mão … o telefone não estava lá. O telefone do meu marido tinha sido roubado. Fiquei sem pinta de sangue. Até parecia que me ia dar uma coisa ali mesmo no autocarro. Faltava-me o ar. É que o telefone do meu marido era o que tinha os nossos passes de EuroRail... Tínhamos que contactar o Eurorail o mais rápido possível. No dia seguinte, partíamos de Paris de comboio para o próximo destino. A viagem ainda só ia a meio… O homem, o ladrão , entretanto, desapareceu no passeio ao lado do autocarro. Quem diria! Um homem de cabelos brancos, muito bem posto era afinal um ladrão em Paris! Parámos na próxima paragem. Os joelhos tremiam-me . Eu toda tremia de raiva , furiosa por ter confiado na aparência do dito cujo senhor de cabelo grisalho e bem posto. O meu marido não estava nada preocupado, e, assegurou-me que eles não conseguiam entrar no Iphone. A calma dele acalmou-me. Fomos á procura da esquadra da polícia. Encontrámos. Estava vazia. Só um polícia. Lá contamos o conto que eles ouvem todos os dias, a toda a hora. Quando lá estávamos, entrou outro turista furioso a reportar terem roubado a mala do quarto. Tinha acabado de chegar, deixado a mala no quarto para ir comer qualquer coisa. Quando voltou, meia hora depois, a mala que ainda nem tinha sido aberta, tinha desaparecido. Mais uma vítima . Um turista, que como nós prossivelmente esperou uma vida para ver Paris, ficou com uma nódoa nas memórias das férias em Paris. Já não pudemos continuar a ver Paris naquele dia. Tivemos que ir para o hotel resolver o assunto dos nossos passes de comboio. Como o telefone era Iphone, os larápios não tiveram acesso á informação. Dias depois, vimos o ping do GPS do telefone numa povoação no meio do nada na Algéria , Norte de Africa. Foi para lá que o telefone foi enviado. Acabou por viajar muito mais do que nós alguma vez pensámos. O sistema de passe da Eurorail é fantástico . Num instante, foi tudo transferido para o meu telefone. Continuamos viagem, mais atentos do que nunca ao telefone. Todo o resto da viagem esteve sempre agarrado a mim com a corrente que sempre tinha usado desde o início da viagem. A viagem a Paris jamais será esquecida. Smile VS

Do I have what it takes to write?

Today, is a big day for me. I decided to start writing again! It’s been a long time since I wrote anything, apart from my short momentary paragraphs on Faceboook or X. What a struggle! I tried when on our recent train tour of Europe... It was Spring... Time in the train could have been productive; however, I was more interested in capturing everything around me. My eyes and soul were in search of adventure and new spaces. I end up taking pictures and making videos,letting my eyes, mind, and heart delight on the new scenery I was experimenting. I did scribble a few notes for future writings. After all,this was the trip of our lifetime - almost three months by train exploring Europe! It was the pinnacle of our travels, one we had been dreaming of since our youth years and for which we never had the money or the time. I should have been inspired.In fact, my mind was quite divided. On one end I was experiencing new places, culture, foods and the train trip, and on the other end I was experiencing sleepless nights filled with anxiety. You see, my heart was torn. My daddy was in palliative care and my husband end up getting Covid during our trip.I guess,my mind was to busy - insufficient space to guide my fingers to write. My heart, my soul were overwhelmed with too many emotions, unable to process them through writing.

Right upon my return,I stayed with my daddy at the hospital. He was very weak, and I felt it was important to be next to him. Everyday,from dawn to after dinner I was by his side. During that time, perhaps I could have find a few moments to write. I didn’t. I couldn't. I was focused on my daddy's last days on this Earth. My attention was completely devoted to my hero - his words , his movements, his breathing, what he could eat, his pains, and his agonies. Always anxious to listen what he wanted to tell me, thirsty to share with him every second of his day. I talked with him, I sang with him,just looked at him and let him stare at me. We talked , we laughed, we smiled at each other. I never cried;he also never cried. We understood what was happening. We knew his days with all of us were almost over. We knew the hour and day of his departue was around the corner. Every minute was precious and yet so peaceful. We all accepted it was time and there was a subtle serenity in the room. When he slept he smiled. He was ready. The days I spent with my dad were a blessing. Not everyone is given this last gift. In his final moments on this planet he turned his face to me and lift his head from the pillow. His eyes filled with a special and wonderful light . I coudl see his last goodbye. With my hands on his I kissed his forehead and whispered to him: “Daddy it is your moment. I love you. We all love you and will continue to love you eternally. You can go now. Yes daddy you can go now. Just go and in peace to the eternal home. I am sure you will find beautiful places in this vast universe. And I am sure you will be with us forever. We both believe in eternal life, in eternal love. I love you so much. We will continue chatting and laughing together daddy. Go now in peace. ” His beautiful green eyes were filled with a vibrant light and he kept looking at me… I kept looking at him my hands on his ... I will never forget the light emanating from his eyes. Those eyes were filled with so much love and, at same time, with so much energy and determination to accept his end with us and to embrace eternal life. Daddy closed his eyes and embarked on his eternal journey. I didn't cry. I felt an enormous peace enveloping everyone in the room, something i had never experienced before. I felt daddy was telling me he was in peace and I should be at peace too.

After my daddy passed, I felt a huge void. I just floated around the house and went on long walks. I did not want to talk with anyone. Instead, I talked with my daddy all the time .I felt he was still right next to me. I told him , without him I felt incomplete. I had long conversations with him on my walks. We chatted about everything. it was like i could hear his replies. I continued not to write. i felt writing would not fill the hole in my heart. Even to write a few words for the funeral ceremony took me sometime. My daddy was very important to me in my life. He was my dearest friend, a beacon of energy and joy. His life was not easy; from an early age he had to climb a difficult mountain. Despite numerous struggles and challenges, he always found a way to be positive. He faced obstacles with a big smile and contagious joy. The truth is, I miss the daily phone calls, the visits, the nights we play cards together, the travels with him. I miss his joyous voice and above all, I miss his bright mind and lovely voice when we had our long chats. He had a way of talking with me that made my soul and heart melt of joy and love.It is not easy to live without his vibrant presence. My daddy motivated me. He provided positive counsel all the time,even motivating me to write. He always kissed me as I was his little girl.

Do I have what it takes to write? My daddy always told me, I do. Maybe, I will write about my daddy and the memories I cherish. Perhaps, I will write about why is life was so important to me and all our family. Maybe, I will be able to let words fly out of my heart and my mind and telling all the stories imprisioned in my soul for so long. Maybe…. Maybe, I will write something again. In the meantime , I will write this blog and continue jotting down notes on whatever lingers in my mind and soul. Hope this will be a prelude to my writing days ahead.