Elisa, minha filha caçula que acabou de conquistar a maioridade ao completar 21 anos, está reproduzindo, no desenho, a foto dos meus pais quando jovens, para presentear a minha mãe que fará 92 anos de idade, e que, muitas vezes, não mais se reconhece nas fotos…
Ao esboçar os traços da face do meu pai, pergunta-me de chofre: “Como era o seu pai?”
Respondo imediatamente com duas rimas de sentido contrário: carinhoso e nervoso, e penso: como definir uma pessoa? E até que ponto tenho o direito de delimitar traços de personalidade de alguém se desconheço as minhas atitudes diante de situações nunca experienciadas? Sou capaz de imaginar as atitudes que eu teria, porém, a emoção de vivê-las ainda é desconhecida e, assim, ao misturar a razão com a emoção, não sei ao certo qual delas se imporá com mais afinco…
Mas meu pai era um sujeito extremamente movido pelas emoções. Emocionava-se com facilidade, não se importando com as lágrimas que rolavam pelo seu rosto. Não sentia vergonha de expressar o amor que nutria pela família. Era presença constante na casa dos pais, no interior, nas férias escolares dos filhos. Quando sua mãe contraiu um câncer, chorava ao ouvir a fita cassete que gravara dos encontros familiares. Visitava-a constantemente quando, em suas viagens a trabalho, estava mais próximo da cidade em que os pais moravam.
Talvez, também por isso, morreu “do coração”. Dizia que não suportaria ir ao enterro da mãe. Foi poupado: morreu antes dela, aos 43 anos, repentinamente, de insuficiência cardíaca…
Mas também era muito nervoso. Dotado de grande organização, irritava-se com facilidade quando encontrava coisas fora do lugar: “qualquer dia desses, acharei os sapatos dentro do fogão…”
Era caixeiro viajante e eu, muitas vezes, arrumava a sua mala. A forma de dobrar as roupas, o lugar correto de colocar cada peça, os apetrechos de higiene pessoal, tudo tinha seu lugar designado e muito organizado.
Talvez, essa “perfeição”, essa disciplina (trabalhador incansável e responsável, cumpria rigorosamente os horários) impedia-o de ser mais condescendente com os outros que pensavam diferente. As regras, impostas aos filhos, eram duras. Quando chamava algum deles, chamava duas vezes, pois, na terceira, já não tinha perdão.
Por ser muito carinhoso, cobrava, de certa forma, também, o carinho e atenção da esposa e dos filhos, ao chegar em casa, do trabalho, e não ser recebido com abraços e beijos.
Da minha mãe, herdei o amor imensurável pelos filhos, a fé em Deus, a coragem e a força de seguir sozinha, a sabedoria de poeta que ela sempre foi: “a gente cria filhos é para o mundo”; “não existe idade, existe vida!”; “Prefiro ser viúva de marido morto a ser viúva de marido vivo” (pensava assim porque se sentia amada). E a certeza de que “como a fumaça, tudo passa.”
Busco, em mim, o que herdei do meu pai, e me vejo tão emotiva quanto ele; tão urgente na externalização do meu amor, carinho e, também, perdão, quanto ele; tão verdadeira, embora, com isso, às vezes, atropelando a limitação do outro, quanto ele; tão imediatista, no que se refere à disciplina, quanto ele; alegre, comunicativo e empático. Presenciei-o pagando ingresso de futebol para o amigo e levando-o ao Morumbi em seu carro. Dava até o que faltava em casa…
Amava minha mãe. Trazia-lhe, sempre, de muitas cidades, lembranças, chaveiros: “Estive em São José dos Campos e lembrei-me de você. Com muito amor!”
“Eu te amo!”… E expressava, fisicamente e com palavras, esse amor. Era ele quem agendava o salão e a levava. Quem lhe comprava roupas, brincos, batom…Gostava de circular com ela em todos os lugares, dizia que ela era linda…
Então, quem era meu pai?
Foi o primeiro homem que conheci. Alegre e triste. Carinhoso e nervoso. Trabalhador e apreciador dos encontros…, e, para mim, de grande relevância: casou-se por amor. Enfrentou a frieza e julgamento dos irmãos de minha mãe porque a queria por esposa.
Creio que foi feliz nos dezessete anos de casado que viveu, porque foi humano, “demasiadamente, humano!”
Uma homenagem à árvore milenar que me fez fruto: minhas raízes!
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