The Fall

\"I do not remember the date. All I know is that it was the fall of 1978 and I was 14 years old. It was not like I had the habit of using seasons to remember important dates. Actually, it isn’t even a Brazilian trait. Maybe we have this perception because of our geographic condition, in which Brazil shuffles wind, heat, rain and cold in the same day. In fact, the arrival of my favorite season was announced by the cloudless turquoise blue sky, the thin air that breaches into my lungs, the fresh breeze that blows over the artificial lake created from damming the waters of Rio Grande, towards the riverbanks, making it rough. The wind fondles my face as it wipes the tears from my eyes. In my stoic reality, dense and heavy tears were my only concession to the great pain that I felt for my mother’s unpredictable death. Our young caretaker, Celestino, brought me the news. He humbly adored my mother, so he could not help crying and, at first, his eyes told me about the tragedy, so, finally, his mouth told me everything. My maternal grandparents used to look after me when I went to the ranch. They were in no condition to tell me anything. They were in shock in the wide living room.\"