I miss you grandpa.

  I miss you so fucking much. I know, sorry, I know you don't like when people don't mind their language, but can you really blame me? It just hurt a little too much tonight. Before going to bed, mom came to the attic and she started talking (I can't even remember how this conversation started) about how you'd spoil her, my uncle and grandma when you'd get your paycheck, how you'd sometimes take them out or got them presents.

  Grandma and uncle keep saying how I take it so much after you with my reading habits. I sometimes wonder if you'd read just as much books as I usually read per week. I'm thinking you would, if you'd have the time, given the huge "library" set up in grandma's dining room. I've already let everyone know, if all those books ever get out there, they'll be wherever I live. I don't even know if I'll ever read them all, since they're about politics, war, etc., and I'd rather read something much lighter. Forever a sick romantic, I know...

  Mom keeps thinking the same, that to her, it doesn't really feel like you're no longer here, that you just went on a long vacation. I don't correct her, because I keep trying to think the same. Anything other than that and I know it'll hurt more. It's not that you don't deserve that we feel so bad 'cause you're not with us, it's just that we'd rather have you here. It's painful for everyone to go into grandma's kitchen and not see you there in your usual seat, watching the news, reading a different book every two or three days...

  She's happy most of the time. Of course, not everything is a walk in the park, but she's good. Stepdad treats her well, and you can really see they love each other very much. I'm happy to be here and witness this everyday.

  Oh, and she — mom, of course — actually admits that I've been like you for a long time. Buried in books, smoking way too much. Again, I know it's no good for me. I'll quit, that's a promise, but it's something we both know it won't happen overnight.

  I keep liking to write in English more than Portuguese. Call me crazy, I know our language is a beauty — albeit in a very ugly disguise — but this one just calls to me. I also only read in English, and that's probably why I've read so much in the past year or so; I just figured how expensive books are in Portugal. Really, what the hell? It's shameful. Even more so when we see great classics with such low prices and new contemporary novels with price tags from fifteen euros and up, up, up! It's just... God, a person almost has to starve to get a book with our minimum wage.

  Tonight, before that thing with mom, we were actually talking about me sending job applications and such, and I told her at some point, "It doesn't matter, I'm goning to be a writer anyway". She thinks I'm joking, and I don't want to actually confirm it to her — or anyone else, for that matter. That way, if I fail my dream, I won't have to deal with the family's disappointment. I keep on trying, but I know it will take more than two years, if I'm lucky, to get it right. Always a perfectionist, always.

  The boys are great (at least that's what I was told, since I'm practically seeing them ten times a year or less). The older one is in the process of getting a job. I'm not even going to comment on this (I AM!); he's on the same boat as me in a way, but I get a feeling he has more pressure than I do (of course, it depends on the point of a view). The younger is in a new school, and he loves it there — that's about as much as I was told. You'd be proud of them, so tall, their faces and personality changing from boys to men. Uncle sure is proud; you can see it in his eyes when you ask about them. And yeah, he's fine too. I still argue with him about your dear, precious soccer team (but it's only to piss him off; I don't know what I'm talking about half the time, but I usually learn something new when we go at each other's throats verbally).

  Grandma is still coping. She just wasn't the same after you "went on vacation". I'm actually worried all the time about her (and my other set of grandparents because of their health, because they're not getting any younger either), because it seems to me that she just doesn't care much. She's supposed to go to the doctor, but she won't make an appointment, and keeps saying the same damn thing: "When I die, I'll be lying down". It's really reassuring to hear her say that on the phone, I swear. Not! I'm almost afraid she'll do something stupid, but I've got to trust that she's not that dumb, because she's certainly not a weak woman.

  Dad is... still dad. We still argue way too much, but I think things are getting better. I'm almost certain that he's finally starting to figure out that I'm not fifteen anymore, because every now and then, we actually talk like adults and he treats me as the twenty three year old daughter I am. The lectures about choices in life are still going; for as much as I tell him, "I do know all about it, it's ingrained in my brain from the other five hundred times we've talked about this!", he doesn't seem to see that I have a really good memory. He thinks I don't love him as much as I was supposed to because we don't talk much. Go figure. If only he could get inside my mind, he'd see how wrong that thought is, how it's almost painful to love him because of how much his words hurt me sometimes. He also seems to think I'm a bit dumb, naïve, given to the society (which really, let's just cut the crap; I've been alone for almost four years by choice, because I'd rather be alone, stress and headaches free and not jumping from dick to dick — sorry for the harsh words, but they're the truth), a lazy ass, anti social (that's a bit true though, I don't like to chit chat with strangers with the velocity of a clap or go out much), and that I trust too much in people (that according to him, don't deserve a certain level of trust). I try to ignore all of this and let him be with his ideas. What's that saying, actions speak louder than words? He'll see about all of this. In the end, I'd just like to spend a few days with dear old dad, just the two of us, because I know, I just know we'd get along fine. I'm a bit scared of him, because he's so... detached. I just wish I could've had my daddy longer when I was a kid and needed him there, instead of far away earning money. (I don't care about the fucking money! What's not to understand? I care about family, bonds, love! Poor and happy is a way better lifestyle than rich and miserable! God damn it!)

  Other than everything above? I'm fine, just peachy. Promise.

  But I do miss you like hell, and I wish I could've been a more mature girl to enjoy your last moments here with you...

  Love you always and forever, shining star. *

Aniversários

   Devo dizer que, após tantos anos de esperanças que foram varridas por inúmeras circunstâncias, não sei, honestamente, porque é que achei que este ano seria diferente. Aliás, se eu esforçar a minha memória – o que não me custa nada, sinceramente – este tipo de esperanças ou expectativas vazias já vem desde há imensos anos; digamos, dezanove, dezoito anos, talvez? À volta disso sim.

   É preciso que se note, e vou mesmo sublinhar que eu não guardo qualquer tipo de rancor pelas promessas vazias, esperanças em vão, expectativas não retornadas do passado. Não, isso tudo pertence ao passado, e não me faz a mínima diferença, para ser sincera. Mas o meu humor hoje, que deveria estar numa fasquia de cinco metros ou mais, nem sequer se consegue levantar da cama – ironia do destino, até eu própria vou passar o dia na cama.

   Lembro-me de que as primeiras promessas eram vazias, mas não compreendia porquê, era demasiado nova para tais compressões. No ano que vem, vamos passar o dia todo na praia, só nós duas. Ou então, Para a próxima, vamos até um centro comercial passar o dia, vamos almoçar as duas juntas, e vamos ao cinema, que achas? E eu pulava de alegria porque… Bem, porque honestamente pensava que tal fosse acontecer. Mas nunca me importei muito que isso não acontecesse. Aliás, era-me sempre preferível fazer exactamente a mesma coisa todos os anos, enquanto eu era mais nova e podia realmente fazê-lo: o mais importante, para mim, era estar literalmente rodeada pelos meus familiares, que me viam crescer a cada ano que passava, que me acompanhavam diariamente, ou quase diariamente. Isso é que me importava. Ainda hoje importa, mas hoje é diferente, e eu já lá vou.

   Como é que hei-de fazer a comparação…? De criança pequena, antes do primeiro ciclo, passei para criança um pouquinho maior. As festas já tinham mais crianças, os meus primos eram mais crescidos, e eu podia dizer, com todo o coração, que tinha amigos da escola comigo no meu dia especial.

Os anos passaram mais, a criança tornou-se adolescente. A festa mudou por completo, obviamente. Das duas opções, uma delas concretizava-se, mas ambas eram da mesma essência: ou almoçava com a família, e ia ao cinema de tarde e jantar com os amigos, ou almoçava e ia ao cinema com os amigos e jantava com a família. Essa tradição durou pouco, diga-se de passagem.

   Desde há cerca de sete anos, é que qualquer sentido de tradição se evaporou. Ao início tentei equilibrar as coisas. Foi complicado; tinha que me tentar dividir em três dado que, de certa forma, tinha passado a ter três famílias: a materna, a paterna, e os amigos – amigos que apenas não têm o mesmo sangue que eu, mas que são igualmente família para mim, como se fôssemos literalmente irmãos e irmãs.

   Hoje, o dia é esquisito. Sinto-me esquisita. Claro, pode ser do meu medo/ansiedade, dos problemas recentes de saúde, que realmente não me ajudam em nada, mas ainda assim, o dia é esquisito. Claro, já recebi várias chamadas e mensagens no telemóvel, já me ligaram para casa, já me publicaram votos de felicidade no Facebook®. Mesmo assim, é esquisito. Eu, que gostava tanto que este dia fosse especial, que fazia sempre um grande alarido, com roupa, maquilhagem, para onde vou sair, meu Deus, eu vou ver tanta gente, vai ser tão giro!, e este ano, nada. Estou simplesmente no conforto da minha cama, no meu portátil, frustrada por não ter os livros seguintes da colecção que ando a ler. E fora isso, é um dia normal como todos os outros.
   O mais estúpido no dia de hoje, é que apenas tenho uma parte da minha família comigo. Certo, odeio não estar com a chamada terceira família, os amigos, mas odeio ainda mais não ver cada um dos meus familiares. É demasiado esquisito. Não é natural. Foram eles todos que, à sua maneira, me fizeram crescer. E, menina crescida como sou, vou aguentar o enorme sapo que tenho na garganta, vou evitar fazer uma birra por não os ver, pois sei que daqui a dias vejo todos eles.

   Enfim… Talvez os aniversários agora sejam aborrecidos. O que é ainda mais peculiar; não era suposto eu, como mulher que sou, apenas passar a odiar os aniversários quando chegasse aos 30? Mas também, a Andreia nunca se esquece de me relembrar, desde há dois anos, quantos anos me faltam para os 30… Maldita Andreia, tem cá uma sorte de eu gostar tanto dela.

   Mas é esquisito. Num universo alternativo, eu estaria bem de saúde. Eu estaria na rua, ou num sítio bastante público, com as minhas melhores amigas, irmãs, para mim. Estaria a rir-me, a tirar fotografias memoráveis. A debater livros, filmes, roupas que veríamos em manequins de monstras ou mesmo em quem passasse por nós.

   Enfim… Talvez no ano que vem.