Earlier than
usual, Olimpia
woke me up,
before six,
and told me
that it was
raining. She
wanted to know
if I had brought
in the clothes
off the clothesline,
as she had asked
me to do last
night, when
I arrived from
the University.
Being the perfect
husband, I sleepily
mumbled yes,
and was suddenly
taken by a wonderfully
peaceful feeling,
remembering
breathing in
the sweet perfume
of the fresh,
clean clothes,
so grateful
for my cherished
family life.
All of us, mortals,
I thought to
myself, should
sing a daily
hymn, in homage
to washerwomen,
gentle creatures
that permit
us to live in
comfort, cleanliness
and health.
How wonderful
it is to awake,
feeling like
this. Nothing
beats happiness…especially
in the early
morning.
Then, already
up and about,
I strolled around
the backyard.
It was growing
daylight. Even
though a misty
fog was coming
down, a delicious
smell of rain
swept across
the hillside,
beginning of
the rainy season
after the long,
bitter drought.
Great! Except
for one thing.
I had overlooked
some towels
on the clothesline
last night.
They were hung
on the dark
side of the
yard, hidden
where the spotlight
doesn’t
reach. Even
more, I had
also purposely
left some of
the kids’
jeans there,
which were still
a little damp
at the time.
Well, by this
time, everything
was dripping
wet, tiny, translucent,
much welcome
drops of silver,
rebirth of spring,
generous, full,
worthy of gratitude,
both ours and
Nature’s.
A spectacle
of life that,
even if not
that interesting
to a housewife;
to me –
always the dreamer
– it is
and always will
be…a poetic
enchantment!
Once again,
all is at peace…
Once, I don’t
know why, in
the middle of
a conversation
at the office,
my friend Pedro
Narciso, began
telling me about
his marvelous
farm life, and
commented on
how, after only
a few days of
rain, there
was already
enough pasture
to feed the
herd. He told
how his cattle
voraciously
devoured the
first tender
green sprouts
of spring. One
insignificant
blade of grass,
however small,
is a motive
of glee to these
docile beings.
A branch, garnished
with luscious
leaves, no matter
how high up,
is enough motive
for a cow’s
instinctive
urges to come
into play. With
outstretched
necks and tongues
dripping with
desire, relishing
new flavors
in the living
emerald pastures,
still feeling
the insistent
hunger pains
inside, intensified
by months of
drought and
famine. These
are grateful
scenes, the
docile animals
demonstrating
joy, Man experiencing
it like this,
and, naturally,
without mysticism,
thanking God
for the return
of the newly
painted, dark-green
pastures, substituting
the brown-grays
and ash-yellows
of the dry season
with vibrant
living colors,
transforming
the pale tones
and dust into
new life.
During a few
minutes of the
next day, standing
in the window,
watching the
morning rain
and reminiscing
about past experiences,
I wove the canvas
of this tale.
Joyful, so joyful,
giving grace
for this transcendental
vision, the
poetic, the
artistic, a
reality offered
to me at the
moment. I then
returned and
thanked my wife
for the favor
of waking me
up so early....
In any case,
are there any
better moments
for us to be
grateful for
than for those
of joy?
