quarta-feira, 15 de abril de 2009


It was over a year of only one, increaseling smaller meal a day in our home – or, more precisely, 621 days, or meals. I did count the meals, not the days. After a while, my calendar notebook was made of such fine information as:
250th meal – ate when the sun draw just a line of shade on the fruitless avocado tree and we had only one guest over for supper, what means we could have been left with more refried beans for us, had not the guest really loved mothers cooking.
Mother and father got sick together. She had, what later, two days before she died, we found out was cancer. My father struggled with the same neuromuscular disease now I suffer myself. Then, daddy – papai – decided this was time to tell our family, the two of them and me, we had no more food. Because of me, he said, he had hidden the real situation until food was over for good. Now I had to face it, prepared or not. I was 13 years old by then. He told me that the time would come, God willing my survival, when I should wipe off the slate and start anew