proseypoem

Wood House

Ribbons, bobbins, threads, peddles; Singer making shorts fit for her little one, she stitches as the family chop and chat, stiring cebola and garlic in the fat that sizzles and whispers on the stove. Beans simmer in the hiss and steam of summer-like Sunday. Here we are, gathered together.

Sister, Tia, Father, and she plays Mother. Brother shoots hoops over the patch and porch – sauce spits, red pimenta; tomato bits, dunking sticks, fingers dipping the 'Molho Scorch.'

Tongues on fire, iced caiparihna, sugar, lime. Papa Careka fine slices green leaves into thin skinny strings. 'Não tem em Inglaterra? Es bom, com sal, limon, e pimenta'

We sing, old time songs, pass the caiparinha. Sugar-ice-cool-loosens voice and lingua. Childhood? Sorry, I don't remember – and watch their tiny dresses from cot to cradle take a dance across the table. Sisters shriek 'That's mine!!' one shocking frock passed down from one to other, red check lace held to a cheek. So very cute, and I remember too...”Carida!”

”You make drink like Brasiliera!”

May be. Long ago, in my 'Vida passada!' Life is passing – Sing! Sing! Lucelia plucks the strings on the violin, women weave the table cloth, their harmony changes everything. One language, when all is heard. A hug outback feels just like home, when you know 'I love you' needs no words. Sing! Sing! The lunch bell rings. Here we are, gathered together, in the Wood House in the Spring.








CuritibaNov08