quinta-feira, 23 de dezembro de 2010
Eu tinha 5 anos quando minha bisavó morreu em uma grande cheia que houve na cidade. Já fazia três dias que não parava de chover, a não ser por algumas breves tréguas onde o céu permanecia tão nublado que não dava para saber que horas poderia ser. Foi então que a Barragem Dona Francisca rompeu. Meu bisavô vinha caminhando pela Ponte do Jucaí, voltando da missa com minha bisavó quando escutou um barulho intenso, como se as próprias nuvens tivessem descido até a rua. Voltou-se para o rio e o que viu foi como se o Jucaí tivesse levantado e começado uma corrida até o mar.
Subitamente sentiu a mão de minha bisavó fugir-lhe à sua e num ato de reflexo agarrou a primeira coisa que podia ainda prendê-la. Era tarde. As águas já haviam levado minha bisavó deixando na mão do bisavô apenas o pequeno botão do vestido que ela usava. O vestido que o bisavô lhe dera de presente no último aniversário de casamento. O vestido que foi a última coisa que o bisavô sentiu esvair-se naquele dia, ou tarde.
Esse botão ele costurou na sua melhor camisa. Camisa que ele usou sempre, depois dessa data. Data que a água egoisticamente levou a bisavó para seu leito. Essa história quem me contou foi meu pai, pois pouco tempo depois o Ceifador veio buscar meu bisavô. Talvez por um pedido especial da minha bisavó. Ela que sempre dizia que "cedo ou tarde, tudo nessa cidade acaba no rio".
I was pulling off some old clothes from the closet of our old house at the countryside. Getting in order the stuffs since my dear uncle Aprigio had died. Never is easy to deal with memories, even more when they are so recently. It was when I found the old t-shirt of my great-grandfather. It would be an usual t-shirt, but for one particular characteristic. It was a long-sleeved shirt with eight buttons: seven made of bull horn and one of leather, coated in a tissue worked in a delicated knitting.
I was five years old when my great-grandmother went dead on a big flood in that city. It was raining for about three days constantly, excepted for one or another pause, where even without the rain the sky were dark enough to doesn't let we know what time were it. So the Dona Francisca Dam broke. My great-grandfather was coming from the church, passing through the bridge above the Jucaí River, with my great-grandmother when they heard a big noise, just as if the clouds themselves had came to earth. He turned around to the river and what he saw was if like the water had stood up to run to the sea.
Suddenly he felt the hand of my great-grandmother away from his hand and on an act of reflex tried to catch wherever he could hold her. But it was too late. The water had already took her away, letting on my great-grandfather's hand only a little button from her dress. The dress that my great-grandpa gave her at their last marriage birthday. The dress that was the last thing which my great-grandpa felt going away that day, or evening.
This little button he sews on his best t-shirt. A t-shirt that he used every day after that date. The date when the water selfishly took great-grandma to its bed. This history was told me by my father, because little time after my great-grandma had gone, the Grim Reaper came to take great-grandpa. Maybe it was a special request from great-grandma. She that always used to say "son or later everything in this town ends in the river".