The happiness that lived in a certain cabin / By: Valda Fogaça

The happiness that lived in a certain cabin


By: Valda Fogaça

Every morning, like a sacred rite, she gets up with the out of dawn. And in an awake gesture the woman rises with care not to awaken that man who slept in the peace of dawn; not even the singing of the rooster in the terreiro, nor the birds outside, announcing the dawn, awaken her from his beautiful Dreams.
After doing the morning hygiene and having highlighted the appearance the woman goes to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She do cheese bread. And for the complement she prepares eggs and couscous. The morning menu could not miss cashew juice, harvested from the backyard, and a smoking pot of coffee. The woman looks out the window and dazzle herself with that morning that smile at her. She wishes to harvest from the rosebush flowers to decorate the breakfast table. Mentally singing the woman passes her hands on the flowery apron, removing traces of cornmeal and going to harvest the roses Before she passes her eyes inside the house of clay, beaten floor, simple decoration, flooded with lights and thinks of her beloved. After putting them in a transparent jar with some water she puts them on the table, and takes out a red flower between white, yellow and pink and sticks in the hair a little over the ear.
The man who slept the sleep of the righteous was now standing receiving the bragging of the first rays of sun. He enters the kitchen after passing through the bathroom and said in a tenor voice: “good morning, beloved”! said Mr. Coast. That greeting said in a sweet and carioso tone was music to that woman’s ears. The woman was sure that she would hear, throughout her life, her love repeat the same sentence at that time of day, so she would get up first so she never missed that sweet symphony. The day played without rush and those protagonists performed their tasks. You never heard complaining either from him or from her; time was not called into question.
At the end of the show of the day when the passarada expired the corner, when the chickens were empoleirava and in the sky you could already see one or other little star sparkling Costa would take the guitar and a stool, and invite his beloved to sing some fashions. Both of them didn’t seem to care about anything else In the interval of one song and the other lovers kissed. They were kisses of love _ with closed eyes and wet lips.

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