from the pen of Maria Clara Paulino
In response to a call for ‘Unexpected People‘
Ms. Maria pulled her cart full of vegetables by my gate. Possibly the last of her breed – the Portuguese peasant woman – Ms. Maria has been pulling this cart through the streets of the small fishing village where I live (when I am in Portugal) for more than 30 years. She makes the rounds twice a week, her thin, tiny body lunging forward in a perennial black skirt and shirt, and a black head scarf tied with two thick knots at the back of her neck. At 70 years old, or older (she is not quite sure how old), she still farms a small piece of land that yields the most delicious greens I have ever tasted – ever – anywhere.
“I’ve worn black since he’s gone,” she told me, years before I moved to the States, as she tied a bunch of turnips I had chosen from her cart. She has been widowed almost as long as she has been doing these rounds.
“So, you’ve never worn any other color in 30 years?” I asked, just to be sure.
“Not once, but…” she looked me straight in the eyes, making sure I was paying attention “…the clothes I set aside for my funeral are lovely and colorful: white skirt and blue blouse, white shoes, and a blue and red scarf. I want to see him smile the moment he looks at me.”
I nodded and muttered something like, “I see.” I was interested but didn’t want to seem unduly curious. Then I gave in. “He is waiting for you, then?”
I was glad I asked. She threw me a cunning smile.
“Oh yes, he misses me – and how! I miss him too. I won’t come to him dressed in black – no way! He loves me in colorful clothes. We’re going to be happy in the beyond, you know, as happy as we were down here. I can’t wait.” She pointed at the sea a few feet away from us and asked, “Don’t you miss this when you’re away?”
She’d found my weak spot. “Yes, I do. I miss it very much.”
“So you understand; it’s like a hole inside; no peace; no peace till we’re together.”
copyright 2011 by Maria Clara Paulino
read more at Maria Clara Paulino’s blog Writing in the Margins
A moment captured by a fine pen.