Another (Brazilian) Mother's Day without you...

Daniela Pesconi-Arthur

Bênça, mãe.
Another mother's day without you. Officially, the second, but because here in the UK mother's day is in March, this is actually my fourth. A bit "cruel", if I may say. After all, I'm an "orphan of mother" and it hurts. And it will hurt, no matter how old I get, no matter how many children I have. I will always hurt. Still, life has to go on, doesn't it? 

I called home today. I haven't called home for ages. I usually ring dad in the office, because just dialling our home number makes my heart skip a beat. Today is Sunday though, the office is closed and I haven't called dad this week yet, so I thought it would be nice to say hello on this day. It's 7.45am in Brasil now. I bet dad's in church and then I'm sure he'll go to the cemetery to place a flower on your grave (bought or "borrowed".. hehe). Or maybe not. He told me the other day that the plants on your grave have already blossomed. I know it sounds a bit weird, but I can't wait to see your grave ready. When I went there, one day after you had been burried, there wasn't anything much, although I could see the wild flowers bunch that I had sent the day before and that Giuliano took to the cemetery with him. I bought them online, on my way to Heathrow airport, and I just couldn't get myself to buy one of those funeral wreaths thingy. I remembered you'd always liked wild flowers... Now there is a sign with your name and photo. I can't wait to sit there and talk to you.

When I phoned earlier today I felt like every "activity" inside of me and around me had stopped for a few seconds. The first ring was so loud and strong and for a moment I thought you might answer the phone. Bloody hell, I thought.  What I am going to do if she, for a crazy, mysterious, supernatural reason, picks up the phone? I know. Not in a million years, right? You thought me so many times that these things are impossible, and that's not how things happen. And I believed you. I still believe you (well, not all the time, but then, that's me... your "rebel" daughter. Have always been, and guess I'll always be.) But I can still dream. After all, like I've said before, I'm an orphan of mother and I have the right to wish and to dream and to hope. Even thought it is to wish, to dream and to hope that a dead person will answer the phone and speak to me. (sorry to call you a "dead person", but even though you're my mother and I love you forever, you are not exactly alive, are you?)

Today, on another Brazilian Mother's day, I'd like to tell you, Mother, more than ever, how much I miss you. How much I wish you were still here. I miss talking to you on the phone, arguing with you (though, stubborn as we've always both been, we'd say we're just "defending our point of view"...) 

I have some pictures of when I was very little. In those photos you are always smiling, or holding me, or kissing me. I can feel your love for me, since the very beginning, and I'll carry it in my heart forever.

I'd also like to use this letter today, Mother, if it's ok with you, to wish Feliz Dia das Maes to all those women that are part of my life who are mothers, especially my mum-in-law. A massive and special kiss also to Isa, and to tia Edna and tia Romilda, who have always been like mothers to me and the girls. Maybe I shouldn't be saying any names here, really,  because my wish goes to ALL the mothers I know, family and friends.

But the most special kiss of all goes to you, Mother, wherever it can reach you. Stay with us forever.

Te amo.

Your first daughter,

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