Seis da manhã

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Vapor nas janelas grandes do apartamento. Amanhece lentamente. Os carros, ao lado de fora, estacionados como se fosse um domingo sorridente. Acordo de um sono que quase não aconteceu. Mas depois de duas noites com febre, delírios e calafrios noturnos dormir mal soa como um pequeno paraíso, do qual eu certamente não me queixarei.

Me pergunto o quão parecida com meu pai eu sou.

Fui ao supermercado ontem quando melhorei para comprar bolacha maria e acabei comprando um sabonete francês, grande, fragrante, com cheiro de infância. Há tempo quero visitar a França. O sul lilás da França. Meu pai costumava viajar muito quando eu era pequenina (em idade). Sempre me trazia presentinhos. Uma vez me trouxe uma caixinha com sabonetes pintados à mão. Tento associar os cheiros. O cheiro do sabonete de ontem com aqueles da caixinha. Tenho curiosidade para saber se as ruas da França têm esse perfume doce, brando, convidativo.

Agora o sol está despertando. Aos poucos. Com uma cara emburrada. Um sol de Turner, mas um pouco mais tímido.

Acordei com uma tremenda vontade de chorar. E chorei. E me desatei a chorar, como se o tempo fosse parar e me amparar em seus longos braços. Estava escuro. Era cedo. A casa estava ainda quieta, nem os bichinhos de todos os dias haviam chegado.

Observar requer um tanto de calma. Por isso quem escreve, quem extrai do dia-a-dia elementos para escrever necessita ser paciente. Escrever não dá retornos imediatos. Aliás nem sempre há retornos.

Pois bem, mais um dia se inicia. Façamos o melhor.

Imagem: Cezanne fisgada pelo Google.

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