Deep breaths on a Sunday morning. Is there free will? Is it just a game for the ego, to keep itself entertained?
Mom irons clothes. The day's wash dries on the line; heavy clouds gather around the Mantiqueira mountains. Cats come and go through the library’s window.
Mom then walks back and forth in the guesthouse, restless, forgetful. She closes windows and wardrobes. I shout a request to leave them open, but she complains of the approaching storm, that she's too cold.
‘Only in the afternoon,’ I tell her. ‘For now, we need to air the house. Until it rains.’
Exudes sadness in its brevity.