A carpideira

Foi numa fria madrugada que ela descansou, após uma longa batalha travada contra o câncer. Embora definhasse gradativamente, e vê-la sofrer me entristecesse a cada dia, quando tudo silenciou, o alívio da dor deu lugar à outra dor, maior e infinita: a eterna saudade. Tomei conhecimento no meu íntimo de que jamais veria seus lábios se moverem, emitindo-me palavras de conforto, abrindo-se em gostosas gargalhadas que costumávamos dar juntas, e nunca mais veria seu corpo na vertical, balançando os quadris ao som dos sambas que gingávamos juntas. Sem contar o pavor que me invadia ao pensar que, com o passar dos anos, sua imagem poder-se-ia apagar gradativamente da minha memória.
            Assim, procurei fitar o seu rosto nas quatro horas que se seguiram antes do seu enterro.
            Estava eu no velório a acariciar seu rosto, cruzar as minhas mãos sobre os seus dedos brancos, frios e inertes, quando os parentes, os amigos foram adentrando o velório.
            Vez por outra, minhas crises de choro e desespero faziam-me cometer os mais inusitados atos de loucura. Lembrando-me da sua vivacidade, às vezes, abraçava-lhe o corpo e tentava erguê-la do caixão, ordenando que levantasse e me acompanhasse na dança. Exigia-lhe que abrisse os olhos e me fitasse ao menos uma vez, a última vez. Gritava-lhe nos ouvidos, cobrando-lhe alguma palavra, a última que fosse.
            O silêncio, ah! Esse maldito silêncio, que é como um castigo a nos lembrar de que não possuímos poderes de quebrá-lo. Quantas vezes na vida clamamos por ele, quando ouvimos o que não queremos, quando alguém se exalta conosco, quando ele se faz necessário para repensarmos a vida, e ele não se manifesta. Agora, que não o desejo em hipótese alguma, ele impera e ignora as minhas súplicas.
            E foi num desses momentos de silêncio, em que só eu falava, que uma sombra de mulher se postou ao meu lado. Derramando lágrimas acompanhadas de soluços, a mulher depositou suavemente a mão em meus ombros, na vã tentativa de me consolar.
            Demorei um pouco a volver os meus lacrimejantes olhos a ela, mas quando ela roçou suavemente a outra mão em meu rosto, enxugando-me as lágrimas com um lenço branco, bordado de roxo com cruzes, instantaneamente, deixei cair minha cabeça sobre seus ombros, como se fossem os de minha mãe.
            Ela passou suavemente as mãos sobre os meus cabelos e dirigiu-me palavras de alento e esperança, inundando a minha alma de conforto.
            Pensei em lhe perguntar o nome, quem era, de onde viera, qual o grau de parentesco que nos unia. Porém, nessas horas de dor, quando sabemos que somos rodeados apenas pelas pessoas que nos estimam, ou, se por acaso não nos conhecem, conheceram o morto que agora jaz na horizontal para todo o sempre, torna-se um desrespeito questionar a identidade de quem nos consola.
            Considerando que vivemos a geração dos sem-tempo, não é qualquer pessoa que se dispõe a comparecer a um velório de um amigo sem que esse lhe seja extremamente próximo, já que a vida não nos permite reservar nossos preciosos minutos de tanto trabalho e compromisso, para gastá-los numa tarde ociosa num velório.
            Assim, permiti-me desfrutar o carinho, a disponibilidade e a atenção daquela criatura que se manteve horas a fio ao meu lado, consolando-me, chorando comigo e injetando-me esperanças em dias melhores.
            Terminada a encomenda do corpo pelo padre do cemitério, deu início a parte tão dolorosa quanto à descida da urna na terra: o fechamento do caixão. Nessa hora, minha, quiçá, parenta, ou amicíssima de minha mãe, ou, até, quem sabe, uma babá que cuidara de mim em tenra infância, com braços fortes e fartas lágrimas, sustentou-me no seu abraço caloroso e confortante, frente ao meu desespero ao ver fechar a imagem definitiva de minha mãe.
            Acompanhou-me no cortejo até a cova. Com as suas mãos fortes, sustentava meu frágil e tremente corpo que, vez por outra, ameaçava se lançar sobre a cova aberta, na tentativa desesperada de não romper o laço, não cortar o cordão umbilical que me unia àquela que me trouxera a vida…
            O barulho das correntes descendo a urna na cova aberta era o único som que se ouvia, misturado aos soluços que eu e a mulher ao meu lado emitíamos.
            Foi, também, dela que recebi um lindo botão vermelho, e, juntas, jogamos sobre o caixão, antes que a terra o cobrisse.
            Tudo terminado, pensei, agora, em questionar a minha fiel companheira da sua identidade. Porém, antes que eu abrisse a boca, a mulher, despedindo-se de mim com um forte abraço, e garantindo-me que incluiria o nome da minha mãe em suas preces, perguntou-me:
            – Qual era o nome da sua mãe?

         (2º lugar em contos no Prêmio Maximiano Campos – Fliporto-PE, 2011)

1.135 thoughts on “A carpideira

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