Páscoa

I am sprawled on the sofa, waiting for sleep to take me and to rest my eyes.

It is the noon hour, husband went to play his drums, the house is quiet.

I did not sleep much this weekend, I have not slept much this life.

I am reading manhã submersa, but my eyes are seeking closing time, sleep blessings.

Manhã submersa brings back college flashbacks, the girl in black riffing on it, like a quick tongued Nubian.

From my sofa, through the sliding door, a parasol dances clumsily at the thumping of the wind.

My eyes are weary but to do not close, they rest on two large crab apple trees in bloom.

This is my favourite season, Spring.

It is not like home, at home it rains and it rains on everything. The ground is green, the sun sprouts in intervals and shines all day.

 Mother scrubs laundry up and down the slab of stone in the running water.

There may be a drought here they say, it did not snow that much, it does not rain.

I have a beautiful black umbrella with a red lace bow that sits in the closet since the beginning of time.

There may be a drought they say, but the flowers are awake, the lilies, the tulips, the hyacinths, the peach tree.

The crab apple tree bathes my eyes every morning.

The blooms are so many, so vast.

They are these meaty, round, strawberry shaped pearls that you want to bite into.

They are so pure, so pink, they rise to fill themselves full with the bright rays.

The sun shines all day here, it shines all year round.

I am laying on the sofa looking at the flowery tree, there are small birds with full bellies chirping their little songs to the wind.

Bees and wasps hiding their tiny heads into the flower’s nests.

Lord Cattleroy tired of prancing around outside greets me through his little door head first, he lies at my feet to seek sleep with me.

My neighbour’s son is working on his car; a older couple walks their dog.

It is Easter.

It is a quiet, uneventful Easter.

I did not sleep a full sleep last night, Quo Vadis was the film we picked, the feeble destructive Nero.

Memories are dancing in my head. So many memories for so little words that want to come out...

Easter is more in my village, my country.

We would wash the stone steps, wash the wooden floors, organize the shoes under the bed, clear the cobwebs.

We would make the bed anew, dust the via sacra paintings, cover the chest of drawers and the tables with white linens.

My father and my brother would pluck the weeds, trim the bushes, wash the pavement, sweep the path up the hill.

My mother, my sister and myself would wake up early morning and go on a hunt.

We were hunting for flowery bushes, flowery trees, flowery patches.

We would pluck narcissus, wisteria, lilies and make flower arrangements for the tables, the center piece. We would throw flowers on the grounds to mark the path to our old stone house.

Then we would choose our attires, and pin our hairs up.

We could hear my brothers’ chatter down the road, surveying the goings on of the far south neighbours, the cars trickling down the valley.

The fireworks would resound in the distance, signaling the compasso was approaching.

My mother would lay pão-de-ló and port wine on the table, while peeling potatoes and onions on the side.

My married brother would arrive with his grumpy wife. My blond nephew still with sleep in his eyes but crisp and pressed clothes smelling of fresh laundry.

The conversation would bounce from here to there.

My father would join us down the path. Sit on the small stone wall looking at the goings on, the odd car that greeted us with a small honk and wave of hand.

The neighbour would walk down the road and ask us if they were close, we would all lay our guesses to the wind and talk about how we were lucky the sun chose to shine today.

My mother would call us up the road and the dog would come pick us up, they knew they had to be close now.

We would sit on the tumbled stones in the courtyard, and gaze at the sprawling cats sunning themselves on the tiled roof.

My younger brother would shout from a far, a bell, I hear the bell!

And we would all rush in the good room, the linen cladded room in a semi-circle, making small dirty jokes as the compasso would parade into our neighbours entryway.

My father would grunt a small admonishment for us to behave, my mother tidying the table cloth of the center table, my sister tightening her ponytail.

The compasso was climbing up the hill, our hill, our pathway covered with our wild flowers dying in the sun under their polished Sunday shoes.

There was the small girl bouncing the chirpy bell, the older girl with the scroll, there was a boy and a man, the bearded one with the purifying incense and the elder with the red sash and a the cross.

They enter and greet us, they read us from the scroll, they shake the incensed silvery container, and we all respond in unison.

Words that we all know because we all have to know.

The large cross is decorated with flowers and its silvery feet are cold to my lips, it goes from my parents to us, to my brother’s wife, to my nephew.

The round closes, our shoulders rest, we all greet and kiss each other, we laugh at my brother silver tongue, they ask how the village is doing, how the valley has less people each year, how the day is sunny and the cows enjoy the sprouting grasses.

My mother insists on serving them port and cake.

They have to go now, there are our cousins down the hill to visit, the Fragas, the Leixões, and then the cathedral to rest the cross in its burrow.

They step outside and pass under the stone arch that lost some of its rocks with time, they step on the withered flowers as they  go down the path clinking their sharp little bell.

My mother goes to the big stone kitchen to check on the wood stove where the veal is roasting, my father sits on an old beach chair by the fig tree.

He tunes through the hand held radio, the right wave, his wave.

My older brother is rushing behind the laurel tree pathway to go smoke.

My sister and I are going to the chestnut grove to photograph our hairs in the sun.

The cats woke up and are climbing up and down the olive tree like formula one racers.

The sun is high in the sky, the wisteria envelopes the old house, the large dog stretches its leash up and down the fence.

My mother calls like a lighthouse speaker, and we all rush indoors.

My younger brother sets plates, we set forks and knives.

A water pitcher, the house red wine, the rye bread, the platter with meats, the white rice, the roasted potatoes, the red scarlet tomatoes, the sprouted lettuce.

The table is made of thick wood, it is long, it reaches from the oak front door, to the weather eaten back doorway.

We sit on two legged wood benches made by my grandfather, my mother sits.

Páscoa at home, I miss it. I am finally closing my eyes and navigating the seven seas.