Rhythm matinal

In Ann Arbor

there was a flower

in the kitchen

of my house.

It was a white


I called her Ana. I don’t

know why. I just like

the name

Ana. Like I like Ann


During spring break Ana and

I were alone in the house, the

only living romantics in

Ann Arbor for a

week. It was a

nice, calm week.

I remember reading Ruy Belo’s

Elogio de Maria Teresa, and

Alexandra Lucas Coelho’s eulogy for

the same Maria Teresa, while

sitting in the kitchen table

in front of Ana.

(Nothing to

do with this, but I just

remembered that

I was told a few moments ago of a very

powerful sentence by

Madre Teresa about love and

pain. Isn’t life


something? It is

what it) I

cried. I’m so sentimental, sometimes.

Other times I’m just crazy, like

when I’m walking in S. João da Mata,

singing Wonderwall by Oasis, to

my cellphone.

There are two orchids at

my mother’s house, in

Lisbon. One is soft purple, the

other is white and rouge.

They’ve both been living there for a

while, in the corridor of the house, where

there is some light light coming

in. I remember last summer seeing the

purple one dying, and then, as winter

came, I watched how it blossomed

again. This summer I watched as the

white and rouge blossomed. Now it is

dying, just like Ana’s flowers died, bit

by bit, after spring break ended.

That’s life. They will blossom

again. The next time I come to visit

I will make sure to notice their growth, to

follow their blossoming. Maybe I will name

them, share their growth with someone who,

like me, might care about the fate, pain and

love of romantic and

fragile creatures such as orchids. Maybe

yes, maybe

no, quem

sabe? What it is

is what it is, and what it

is is very strong (I said that, on

the phone, in

São João da Mata, moments after

confirming that, yes, I

was crazy, but only