photo semana

Eight Years
Paula Toller

Why are you Flamengo
And my father Botafogo?
What means
“intrepid colossus”?

Why the bones hurt
While we sleep?
Why theeth fall?
From where the children come?

Why the fingers shrivel
When I’m in the bath?
Why the streets flood
When it’s raining?

Whow much is thousand trillions
Times the infinite?
Who’s Jesus Christ?
Where are my cousins?

Well, well, well Gabriel… (bis)

Why the fire burns?
Why the moon is white?
Why the earth spins?
Why sleep now?

Why the snakes kill?
Why the glass dulls?
Why do you paint yourself?
Why the time passes?

Why we sneeze?
Why the nails grow?
Why the blood flows?
Why why do we die?

What’s the cloud made of?
What’s the snow made of?
Whow do we spell
Reveillòn? well, well, well, Gabriel…(bis)

As you may have noticed, it’s full of grammar errors. It’s written this way on purpose.

Photo taken on digital.

Camilla, a classmate during a photography class, in an… unused angle.

Photo taken with film (I forgot the one I used). Converted to B&W. I guess I would have kept it colored if her nails were painted.

One day, she’ll find out I’m not the funniest person in the world.
She’ll realize that in the end, I’m not that cool, and the jokes I told her now seem silly.

One day, she’ll realize that – how incredible! – I don’t know everything, frequently leaving unanswered the great questions.
She’ll find out I’m not a brilliant person, and that I’m not that smart.

One day, simply by having me around, it will be a shame, and when I’ll insist in giving her a goodbye kiss in front of school, that will be the end of the world.
Like an old toy, I’ll be thrown inside a drawer, because there’s no more fun on playing with me.

One day, she’ll find out that there are so many people more interesting than me around.
My room on her life will be restricted to the “good mornings” and the “good nights”… there will be no more reason to talk to me.

One day, she’ll realize that the stuff I say doesn’t make any sense to her and – the worst part – I don’t understand her anymore… she’ll know everything, and she’ll always take the right calls.
She won’t need me anymore, she won’t need to be saved, never more. And from this day on I’ll stop being her hero.

But maybe someday, when she’s casually looking into her old drawers, she’ll find an old toy…
Maybe she’ll smile when remembering that she’s told him crazy histories, or smile when remembering the spooky histories about the witch holding a knife that she liked so much to hear.
Maybe she’ll laugh when remembering that she used to play with that toy of monsters inside balls, or when she thought she would break his fingers, or when…
Maybe she’ll hop when remembering the crazy dances she danced with him when hearing the cool music from the film they were watching together.
Maybe she will hold the toy again when remembering that she used to hold him tight when she was sad, bouncing in a lullaby movement.

I’ll be there in the drawers of your memory, just waiting to be found again.

Dedicated to my beloved daughters, to whom I am and will be an old toy. The Time, relentlessly, goes ahead. They grow and I know that, in the end, we raise them just for that: to become, one day, an old toy. And that’s not bad, because after all, we never stop loving our dear old toys.

Photo taken with a Kodak Portra 160 VC film.