We insist on giving life to everything like a puppet, a reflection not always needed by the person who manipulates it.
Personal account of attachment and detachment: When I was small, I would drop my body on my father's lap, comfortably seated in a Bergère armchair. The big ones with high backs and a refined personality. A cuddly kitten, she kept poking with the nail of her left index finger at the patterned tapestry fabric that covered the filling. Day after day she poked until the armrest ripped. When he reached the wooden structure, he calmed down. I cast a defiant look at my father, who never warned me, just laughed at my persistence. My mother would then scold my eardrums and call the upholsterer to repair the damage. I don't remember how many times I managed to tear the tissue, but I remember my father's knowing expression.
My father moved in with Heavenly Father – my mother's words – before I was 7 years old. He had leukemia at 42. At 3 months we were: mother at 41 without much explanation, brother at 1 year without speaking and I without understanding anything.
Flashes in my memory. I didn't go to the funeral or mass. My mother thought to spare me. Dad disappeared like that. I did not see. Until I was 18 I had this unresolved afterlife situation. Too young for so much numerology. Lots of therapy to fill in the father's lack.
Time passes pastime.
I grew up. I set up home. I got married bred.
On a perhaps sunny day, my mother, in one of her typical attacks of getting rid of feelings through things, gave the armchair to my cousin, cousin brother, more brother, without even considering if I would like - and I liked it at the time - to stay with her.
Along with the armchair, my cousin took a dehydrated dead mouse, pressed under the moldy pillow. He only noticed when he changed the fated upholstery.
Everything loses its fun in its time. The armchair ended up at his farm in Araçariguama, in the interior of São Paulo.
My husband, an architect, renovated the farm and one day he commented to me: Poor thing, it's so abandoned!
I asked for it back and got a no. "Not even. It was a gift from your mother and I loved your father so much.” But the father was mine, right?
Time passes pastime.
On a perhaps sunny day, my cousin suggests, honestly I don't even know for whom, that the armchair should stay with me, after all, mice aside, he admitted: the father was mine.
I know for sure, it became a mess and no one wanted to sit on that throne of a deposed king anymore. I come home tired, my innocent husband points out something.
I see Bergere from afar. Unexpected visitor waiting for me in the living room. Daringly superb.
The room sulked, silenced, shrank.
It was a catharsis to glimpse that ghost. It didn't represent anything. Annoying memory stealing my space without permission. Cry. Much. Anger. Anger at my father who left me without warning.
Anger at my cousin's lack of respect for past time. That snooty armchair with a French name? I don't even recognize it as part of the warm paternal hug anymore.
The next day, my cousin on the phone, excited, asks:
- Is happy?
- I'm not. There's no more space. Time has passed.
- But, Isa, you wanted so much, I can see you old lady sitting on it with your grandchildren on your lap.
– Marcos, am I there thinking about grandchildren? Look, my 1.60 will be swallowed by that immensity. OK, thanks, I'll see what I can do.
I did. Bergère didn't mean anything anymore and didn't even refer to everything that was my father.
My husband fell in love with the damn style, asked for clemency in favor of the poor thing. I called the upholsterer to renovate. Catalogs and more fabric catalogues. I don't want. I don't like. I buy and call you. I didn't buy or call, I found a pretext: the upholsterer still hasn't called me. If I didn't call and he doesn't call, why rush the service? called. Did you forget the armchair? Yes, Mr. Cicero, I know, so seriously, it's been almost a year since you've been in her workshop? in the can. Is it of use to you? You can stay. Dress her in a queen cloth, the best you have, leave it as a showcase. It will bring luck to her business. He was happy. Me, even happier.
Swear! Without crossing your fingers. I hung up the phone and heard:
“This girl has grown up” and the sound of my father's satisfied laughter.
Time passes pastime.
And the sweet memories still pass through my heart.
closed loop. Now I understand. Affection and memories do not need material as support.
