It’s morning. I just got up. I open the window, take a deep breath and contemplate the Sierra do Curral. Or what’s left of the Sierra. I speak of my loved ones far away, so that the mountain breeze may carry to them my message of peace and hope.
“Fog in mountains, rain in the land.” How nice! The rain is washing the city. Save the plantations. But the sun hasn’t come out. Been days since it has. And the rain rains longing in me. Longing of whom? Everyone, of course! And everything. Haven’t you ever felt such a longing. A vague longing, undefined, undefinable? A purple longing, a blue longing, a pink colored longing? A longing that hurts, itches, bites, tickles, I don’t know. A longing from afar. From childhood? From other lives(?) And it runs deep.
Ouch! Longing of my loved ones so close to me, and so far! Longings of my loved ones so far away, and so close! Longings of Paris, which I only know in dream. Longings of Sena who goes chante, chante, chante… le jour et la nuit. Longing of Napoleon Bonaparte!
Madness?! No! Tenderness. I’m not missing the great Emperor that we all know, victorious in so many battles, defeated at Waterloo, exiled onto St. Helena. No. I miss the skinny little boy hiding in the garden; who races with the daughter of the silk merchant of Marseilles and slows his pace right at the end, just to see the dazzle of victory shinning in the eyes of his beloved. Longings of Désirée’s Napoleon, standing in marvel at the different shades of blue. Longings of the man in love, vulnerable and fragile inside of the irate Emperor. Longings of the Napoleon who, victorious and acclaimed at the Arc de Triomphe with its festive ringing of bells, flees from the crowd, from the soldiers, from the Emperor, tired of so many battles; who goes to knock on the door of his beloved woman on a cold rainy night, with the urge to stay over… to bask in her lap… But the Empress awaits, the Palace awaits, the People await, the homeland beckons.
Longings of the Napoleon who does not surrender before the enemy swords and cannons, but surrenders before a sprig of violet attached to the blue neckline of a one and only woman.
Longing of the poet who, full of sun, waited for a loved one who did not come on that rainy morning.
Longing of my little daughter who, on a day like this, of rain like this, slipped into her nap of eternal peace and was carried off in her little doll box. Longing of Dr. Gotthard, so young and already so defeated, “You gave your daughter to me. I had to return her to you safe and sound. I couldn’t even make her make it to sun rise. I couldn’t even get the diagnostics. I never felt so impotent! What good is it to have science? I’m going home. I’m exhausted! Doctor Fatima will take over my shift. I already asked them to take care of everything for you.” Says the crestfallen pediatric chosen to watch over my daughter in her short space between life and death. His blue eyes shining less without the courage to stand up and face the storm in mine.
Science is men’s, Dr. Gotthard, mystery belongs to God. I would have said to console the young doctor, if the tears had not garbled my voice.
The sun did not come out today. And it rained longings in me.
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