The day my father died, my mother and my brother called me at the same time. Viewing, the screen phones, the two together, I knew he was gone. Nothing would unite distant worlds as if it were not, at that moment, a monumental movement that undermined the structures shake in my world.
And I had found the earliest. The beard was, strangely, a little sloppy. Not those who would carry the bad guys in westerns, but his little facial hair bristling up straight, parallel to that already face furrowed with wrinkles. Seeing him laughing, happy, happy, I realized how much he was getting older. Noticing me more hampered by one of the moments of nostalgia Lusitanian who insist on me finish off, turned away without doddering those thoughts, at the time.
When I arrived, my brother in tatters, I looked in his window that picture had never seen, but knew when it had been. Perhaps, I remembered until the said time frame, and invented the whole landscape of the static picture in my memory, to fill the void. That white mustache on a skinny guy, Rio's hill, but had already marred in many fallen and caatingas me that I did not cope with. Or stories. Or points. Depending on the accounting.
Thinking alone me this chance provided me that nothing had happened. My father did not die that day, nor at any time since the know (and I know there will be many years) although several times he washes out something in my mind. Still, for my happiness, live to samba.
probably now sleeps a drunken dream, those who let us light the next day dawned.
I sat listening to the blue of the television, I see the rushing cars crossing the overpass. Although I doubt that require so fast, I hope, with luck, they might go somewhere.
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