Wanderlino
Arruda
Earlier
than
usual,
Olimpia
woke
me
up,
before
six,
and
told
me
that
it
was
raining.
She
wanted
to
know
if
I
had
brought
in
the
clothes
off
the
clothesline,
as
she
had
asked
me
to
do
last
night,
when
I
arrived
from
the
University.
Being
the
perfect
husband,
I
sleepily
mumbled
yes,
and
was
suddenly
taken
by
a
wonderfully
peaceful
feeling,
remembering
breathing
in
the
sweet
perfume
of
the
fresh,
clean
clothes,
so
grateful
for
my
cherished
family
life.
All
of
us,
mortals,
I
thought
to
myself,
should
sing
a
daily
hymn,
in
homage
to
washerwomen,
gentle
creatures
that
permit
us
to
live
in
comfort,
cleanliness
and
health.
How
wonderful
it
is
to
awake,
feeling
like
this.
Nothing
beats
happiness…especially
in
the
early
morning.
Then,
already
up
and
about,
I
strolled
around
the
backyard.
It
was
growing
daylight.
Even
though
a
misty
fog
was
coming
down,
a
delicious
smell
of
rain
swept
across
the
hillside,
beginning
of
the
rainy
season
after
the
long,
bitter
drought.
Great!
Except
for
one
thing.
I
had
overlooked
some
towels
on
the
clothesline
last
night.
They
were
hung
on
the
dark
side
of
the
yard,
hidden
where
the
spotlight
doesn’t
reach.
Even
more,
I
had
also
purposely
left
some
of
the
kids’
jeans
there,
which
were
still
a
little
damp
at
the
time.
Well,
by
this
time,
everything
was
dripping
wet,
tiny,
translucent,
much
welcome
drops
of
silver,
rebirth
of
spring,
generous,
full,
worthy
of
gratitude,
both
ours
and
Nature’s.
A
spectacle
of
life
that,
even
if
not
that
interesting
to
a
housewife;
to
me
–
always
the
dreamer
–
it
is
and
always
will
be…a
poetic
enchantment!
Once
again,
all
is
at
peace…
Once,
I
don’t
know
why,
in
the
middle
of
a
conversation
at
the
office,
my
friend
Pedro
Narciso,
began
telling
me
about
his
marvelous
farm
life,
and
commented
on
how,
after
only
a
few
days
of
rain,
there
was
already
enough
pasture
to
feed
the
herd.
He
told
how
his
cattle
voraciously
devoured
the
first
tender
green
sprouts
of
spring.
One
insignificant
blade
of
grass,
however
small,
is
a
motive
of
glee
to
these
docile
beings.
A
branch,
garnished
with
luscious
leaves,
no
matter
how
high
up,
is
enough
motive
for
a
cow’s
instinctive
urges
to
come
into
play.
With
outstretched
necks
and
tongues
dripping
with
desire,
relishing
new
flavors
in
the
living
emerald
pastures,
still
feeling
the
insistent
hunger
pains
inside,
intensified
by
months
of
drought
and
famine.
These
are
grateful
scenes,
the
docile
animals
demonstrating
joy,
Man
experiencing
it
like
this,
and,
naturally,
without
mysticism,
thanking
God
for
the
return
of
the
newly
painted,
dark-green
pastures,
substituting
the
brown-grays
and
ash-yellows
of
the
dry
season
with
vibrant
living
colors,
transforming
the
pale
tones
and
dust
into
new
life.
During
a
few
minutes
of
the
next
day,
standing
in
the
window,
watching
the
morning
rain
and
reminiscing
about
past
experiences,
I
wove
the
canvas
of
this
tale.
Joyful,
so
joyful,
giving
grace
for
this
transcendental
vision,
the
poetic,
the
artistic,
a
reality
offered
to
me
at
the
moment.
I
then
returned
and
thanked
my
wife
for
the
favor
of
waking
me
up
so
early....
In
any
case,
are
there
any
better
moments
for
us
to
be
grateful
for
than
for
those
of
joy?
