"...Quem sofre fica acordado
defendendo o coração."
Thiago de Mello
She thought about writing the story of her daughter's life.
It would have to start with Clair de Lune, by Debussy. It was her daughter's favorite.
It was pretty like her, profound, full of mystery and beauty, energy and despair, intensity and resignation, but above all, with awe for life, the universe and all its possibilities.
Awe was what had filled her when she came home from the hospital with her little princess. She was so complete, so perfect. Her heart was full of happiness and energy, that felt like trapped in her chest, almost out of air in admiration the beautiful present that she was given by nature to be able to mother such perfect being.
She remembers she holding her daughter embraced by her husband and all of them surrounded by such warm love that it was as if the universe had stood still watching them.
Intense was her daughter's life. So short, but so intense. So large was the void when she left. In her grief she though she would never be able to write anything. No amount of words would do justice to describe what was having a child like her. It was as if finding the right words would mean confining her daughter's life to the limits of this word, showing her the true extent of her tragedy, her pain, the finality of everything. Her daughter was made of stardust,, she thought. She made herself believe that her daughter's pain was over now, but her life now was free from her body's jail. She had to believe in something to survive.
She wasn't sure why she needed to survive. "You need to survive!" That's what she kept hearing. She didn't have strength to fight.
Nights were dreaded. The indigenous people of her homeland were right. Bad spirits can haunt you at night if you fall asleep. They sure did. Her nights were tormented with nightmares where painful reality couldn't be forgotten.
