As estações da vida

                Estávamos na primavera, a estação das flores. Os jardins pintavam a paisagem da cidade com suas flores multicores e, nas calçadas, os ipês de variados matizes forravam o chão embelezando as alamedas.
            Entrei no ônibus, que não estava cheio, e acomodei-me na cadeira da janela para observar a paisagem, enquanto deixava minha mente passear no meu passado, quando o perfume de flores invadiu as minhas narinas, levando-me a outra primavera de recordação e saudades: minha infância.
            Vejo-me menino esperto e sedento de aventuras na cidadezinha mineira de minha origem. Apesar do físico mirrado, aos 10 anos de idade não temia domar os irreverentes cavalos adquiridos pelo meu pai, nem conduzir a boiada à outra cidade, quando necessário. Ordenhar as vacas, no final da madrugada, após cavalgar até o sítio, era-me de grande prazer. Sentado no banquinho colocado aos pés da vaca, segurava firmemente suas tetas e num sincronismo de movimentos, eu via jorrar aquele leite grosso e espumante dentro do balde, que depois seria distribuído aos moradores da pequena cidade.
            E foi justamente um choro de criança que me trouxe de volta à realidade.
Elas estavam assentadas à minha frente, na dianteira direita do ônibus: a mãe e a filha com o bebê no colo.
            O ônibus trafegava no morno silêncio da tarde, já que adentrara no bairro de classe baixa da metrópole mineira.
O silêncio dos passageiros foi quebrado pelo choro insistente do bebê.  As duas mulheres conversavam em cicio, enquanto o bebê se agitava no colo da mãe. Consegui captar o olhar de ordem da mãe dirigido à filha, embora não entendesse as palavras imperativas.
            A filha, por sua vez, avermelhou o rosto. Enrubesceu-se enquanto chacoalhava a criança no colo, ansiando cessar seu choro.
            A avó voltou seus braços para o bebê, acomodando-o melhor para receber o alimento no colo da mãe.
            A jovem mãe, ainda envergonhada, olhou de soslaio para os passageiros, deu ainda com os meus olhos que procurei desviá-los imediatamente, e, embora receosa, voltou seus olhos para o bebê em pranto, abriu a blusa e retirou o seio para lhe oferecer.
            Mas o bebê já se irritara o suficiente e não conseguia abocanhar o peito, tamanha a ansiedade da mãe.
            A mulher, inquieta, tenta acalmar o bebê enquanto introduz o bico do seio na pequenina boca do infante. O bebê agita a cabecinha e grita sem conseguir mamar o leite que saciará sua fome.
            Entre sussurros de “psius” da avó já incomodada com os olhares dos passageiros e o nervosismo da filha, a jovem mãe resolve conversar com o bebê a fim de convencê-lo a sugar-lhe o leite:
            “Mama, neném. Mama, senão o gatinho vai mamar.”
            E o bebê continuava chorando.
            A mãe começa a se apavorar e repete seguidamente: “mama, neném, anda, mama, senão o gatinho vai mamar.”
            Foi quando, de repente, ouviu-se do fundo do ônibus um lento miado masculino: “miauuuu, miauuuu”.
            A mulher, assustada, guarda o seio sob a blusa e dirige o olhar suplicante para o homem que estava assentado na cadeira à esquerda de sua mãe.
            O sujeito abre a sacola do bebê que está no seu colo, e ergue seu corpo de 1,90m no corredor do ônibus, enquanto aponta um “38” para todos os passageiros e pergunta, cuspindo sua ira:
            _ Quem é o gatinho que está querendo mamar, hein?
            Um silêncio de morte impera dentro do ônibus, pois, com o grito do homem até o bebê emudeceu, e percebo que todos os olhares masculinos se voltam para a janela, buscando a rua como fuga.
            Sucessivos pedidos de calma são dirigidos ao homem, pela avó do bebê, enquanto a campainha do ônibus é acionada e dois homens (prováveis miadores) ganham a rua.
            Aos poucos, o silêncio e a calma voltam a reinar dentro do ônibus, já quase vazio, e eu volto o meu olhar à rua e continuo a minha viagem ao passado, enquanto observo as paisagens, os transeuntes…
            E, então, em frente à padaria, o ônibus chega ao meu destino. Desço, entro na padaria e compro o leite e o pão para alimentar meus filhos, que não mais estão na primavera como o bebê. Saíram da doce infância e, inquietos, sorvem com ansiedade o verão da juventude, enquanto eu e minha esposa serenamos no nosso outono, para que tenhamos um inverno pacífico e aconchegante.
                                                          

 

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