On Jose de Paiva Loures
Marcos Coutinho | 05.07.2006 18:48 | Gender | World
On Jose de Paiva Loures
One of the souvenirs that I have of my father it is of the attachment that it had for the flowers. The spaces noblest of the immense yard of our house were busy for the most different species of male defendants, dálias, irises, zínias, palms, cup-of-milk, daisies and others, composing an immense garden. All Saturdays, per the morning, were in our house the sacristão of the First Church there, collecting braçadas of flowers to decorate the Altar of the Gentleman. In that Saturday where my father went down to the tomb, the long day was an interminable succession of moans, until the rainy night if abated on our pain and our fatigue... Innumerable relatives, come of very far, searched room better, spread for the rooms, rooms and corridors of our house. Already it was dawn when one of my sisters if raised, complaining of strong migraine, provoked for the perfume of the irises that crossed the venezianas and invaded the environment. One to one, the people had been waking up and could feel, in fullness, that perfume and, to increase the internal ventilation, despite rain, we open the windows. Such fact deserved of my mother, a commentary:
-"Que good! Thus, when dawn, we will be able to take many flowers for it " Thus, with the half-opened windows and supporting the respingos of intermittent rain, we come back to sleep. Badly the clarity of a new day went appearing, my mother already was in the kitchen, preparing the coffee and, to if remembering the occurrence for the dawn, it it opened the door of the yard and was to look the irises that would have to be decorating the seedbeds. Instants later, it came back and asked for that we were also to look the flowers in the yard, still wet for the rain of the dawn. Which was not our surprise when, when searching each I sing of the immense yard, we do not find a flower at least! All, absolutely all, had been harvested for the faithful sacristão, in the previous day... Without a doubt, to say farewell itself, my father had left between us, the soft perfume of its best soul...
One of the souvenirs that I have of my father it is of the attachment that it had for the flowers. The spaces noblest of the immense yard of our house were busy for the most different species of male defendants, dálias, irises, zínias, palms, cup-of-milk, daisies and others, composing an immense garden. All Saturdays, per the morning, were in our house the sacristão of the First Church there, collecting braçadas of flowers to decorate the Altar of the Gentleman. In that Saturday where my father went down to the tomb, the long day was an interminable succession of moans, until the rainy night if abated on our pain and our fatigue... Innumerable relatives, come of very far, searched room better, spread for the rooms, rooms and corridors of our house. Already it was dawn when one of my sisters if raised, complaining of strong migraine, provoked for the perfume of the irises that crossed the venezianas and invaded the environment. One to one, the people had been waking up and could feel, in fullness, that perfume and, to increase the internal ventilation, despite rain, we open the windows. Such fact deserved of my mother, a commentary:
-"Que good! Thus, when dawn, we will be able to take many flowers for it " Thus, with the half-opened windows and supporting the respingos of intermittent rain, we come back to sleep. Badly the clarity of a new day went appearing, my mother already was in the kitchen, preparing the coffee and, to if remembering the occurrence for the dawn, it it opened the door of the yard and was to look the irises that would have to be decorating the seedbeds. Instants later, it came back and asked for that we were also to look the flowers in the yard, still wet for the rain of the dawn. Which was not our surprise when, when searching each I sing of the immense yard, we do not find a flower at least! All, absolutely all, had been harvested for the faithful sacristão, in the previous day... Without a doubt, to say farewell itself, my father had left between us, the soft perfume of its best soul...
Marcos Coutinho