My great aunt's closet
Monday is cleaning day. Dismissing the cleaning lady was the first thing I decided to do in this new phase of my life. Sometimes I regret it, but this feeling passes quickly when I remember the feeling of invasion of privacy that used to torment me on cleaning days. In order to adopt a more self-sufficient lifestyle, I've had to discard many things that used to clutter my home and required maintenance. Gone are the objects, but the memories remain.
As my mind wanders over these trivialities, the image of my great-aunt comes to mind. She lived alone in a tiny apartment in the downtown area of Porto Alegre. Even though she didn't have a cleaner, her apartment was always meticulously clean and tidy, unlike mine. The packaging of all the objects she bought or received as gifts was uncrumpled and free of adhesive tape before being stored in the closet. Separated by category - plastic bags, paper bags, wrapping paper and ribbons - they awaited the day when they would be used again. Having lived through the periods of shortages that characterized the two world wars, nothing was considered useless or disposable by her.
Her closet was a veritable treasure trove, where anyone with a bit of determination and patience could find everything that was needed, not just packaging. After her death, we found dozens of notebooks where the dates of all the important events in family life were recorded, as well as a lifetime's worth of daily expenses and sources of income. In her countless photo albums, we found, immortalized, the familiar faces of the countless stories she had told us during the afternoons she came to visit us. Just as diligently as she sorted and recycled the packaging, she recorded and retold the details of the lives of each of these ancestors. Thanks to her gifts as a storyteller, there was no one who wasn't interesting to our eyes: they were all multifaceted and had lived tormented lives, but not without glamor.
Thanks to the stories she told us, I now understand that the experiences of my ancestors have in part influenced the decisions I have made in my life. I also realize that their skills and interests make up some of the many facets of my personality. More than rings or possessions, the most important inheritance I received from these ancestors is engraved on my body and soul. And what will I leave for the future in this world where almost everything is disposable? Is the late desire to tell stories that has become so strong in me recently part of this hereditary process?
Voltar