Growing old

These last holidays I spent a weekend in Soajo, up on Gerês mountains, visiting a dear friend. As half "soajeiros", my friend lives and works in Paris. The other half is in the US. A very small percentage of the local population actually lives in town. So there I went and was welcomed by all the smells, colours and flavours of Minho intertwined with the typical August messy crowd of emigrants on vacation. As I stepped out of the car, under the burning sun, I bumped into a Virgin Mary in purple! Kids were preparing for the procession. Dressed up into the most extraordinary outfits, running around the church in Pelourinho (the main square). I proceeded the way to my friend's home. After being twice to Soajo, one can easily find the way... Everyone was at the church so, despite of the whole party, everything was quiet around and I could only remotely hear the lovely brown almond-eyed cows lowing. Even the chicken were acting very civilized and still!


So there I was again, having fun with good friends, enjoying the pleasant company of that beautiful family, sharing their food and wine and stories around the table at meals, losing my bikini and contact lens whenever plunging into the river from this huge cliff (beware of my dramatism, reader) and talking as if there was no tomorrow, trying to update six months of distance and carry on friendship in its new version.

After a first full day, I was sprawling on the couch, looking at the pictures I had taken with my friends by the river, with all the sexy-calendar-bikini-style poses whe are capable of to amuse the newly-arrived emigrants and families on holidays; when this tiny wrinckled woman wrapped in black thick clothes entered the house. It was my friend's grandmother, Micas. And she looked at me as I did at her: curious. I couldn't resist her! So I stood up to great her, leaving the bloody digital cool camera behind, and join all the family women at the table, listening to Micas' odd enchanting stories. She told about the misery and hunger she went through in her youth. She told about rats and snakes in the soup. She told about how naked we go nowadays and how much better that is than to go all covered and having the old ladies covering your legs with their scarves whenever you would kneel down in church. She told a whole lot of wonderful stories! Some exciting. Some uninteresting. All wonderful! She told them quietly, with no signs of sorrow or regrets or anger. She told them consistently and peacefully. And I listened as I would listen to my own grandmother when I was just a little girl (and sometimes still do...), admiring her completely for her knowledge on wisdom, not questioning a thing. Feeling hugged by the words. And I got myself intensely wishing one day to become like her. That is what I want to be when I grow up. when I grow old. I want to be just that: old.


I wish to grow old. Very old! I wish to have my face covered by the wrinkles that will map my full life. My time turned into space. I wish to tell my grandchildren and their friends my wonderful stories, hoping to touch their hearts the same way Micas touched mine. A bit more placidly after each of life's whirlwind. Until my eyes close and I rest in peace.

Today, I got a couple of wrinckles more... I hope I still have a long way till I finally rest, but I am surely sleeping with a smile, deepening those beautiful furrows. Cherishing the love in my life. Growing old. At last! :)