quarta-feira, 24 de novembro de 2010
When I was younger I used to expend my vocations at my grandma house in the countryside. Through the window of my bedroom I could see the yard. A very well care yard. My grandma used to expend most of her time taking care of the flowers and fruit trees. There was a mango tree, placed exactly in front of the window. And there, on one of the branches, everyday were a hummingbird. That was a very intriguing fact because: one, the mango tree had no flowers and two, I know that hummingbirds don't keep flying infinitely, but I also never saw frequently some resting somewhere. And that bird used to expend hours watching my room. Watching me. Today I figure out how many times that little hummingbird saw me crying, when I was thinking that nobody was seeing me. How many joys it shared with me. How many angry reactions it had witnessed. There, quiet, little and serene. I don't know if it were always there, no matter which season. I don't know what were there, inside the bedroom, to keep it attention. I believe that the little hummingbird even doesn't exists anymore, as my beloved grandma... As that bedroom... As that yard. Anyway it was a part of several moments of my life. And lonely moments lived inside that bedroom.