As flores de plástico não morrem (Plastic flowers don’t die)

 

Não importava a cor, o tamanho ou a espécie, a regra era única: sábado era dia de encher a casa de flores.

Aprendeu com a avó que não importava se era com chuva ou com sol toda casa que se preste tem flores e cheiros espalhados pelos cômodos. Aos 20 quando decidiu morar sozinha ficou feliz quando descobriu um pequeno quiosque rodeado de falsas margaridas na praça não tão longe de sua casa

E então, virou tradição.

Todo sábado seu despertador a tirava da cama as 7 am, ao som de um jazz qualquer preparava seu café forte e amargo. Depois tirava sua velha bicicleta do canto da sala e pedalava feliz até a praça em busca de encontrar as flores mais bonitas colhidas de um jardim qualquer.

O dono da pequena floricultura já esperava pela garota ruiva do rosto sardento. Adorava observar a maneira como ela escolhia o que levaria para casa. E toda vez era sempre igual, ela entrava na loja, pendurava o casaco atrás da porta e ao fechar seus olhos respirava fundo.

“São para ver melhor”, ela dizia quando abria os olhos e encontrava o gerente olhando fixamente para ela.  Ele nunca argumentou contra, afinal a cena toda tinha certo encanto.

E seu ritual continuava enquanto passeava pelos corredores. Cheirava, pegava, sentia e conversava com todas as flores, até escolher aquelas que iria carregar no cesto da bicicleta e enfeitar a casa.

Ela gostava de ver as cores, sentir a textura e o cheiro de cada uma delas. Cada sábado era uma escolha diferente, não tinha flores preferidas, para ela todas fariam parte do seu próprio jardim.

Naquele sábado para se proteger da chuva vestiu as botas de plástico e o casaco a prova d’água pegou a velha bicicleta e já na rua começou a cantarolar uma música qualquer enquanto sorria.

Ela não sentiu dor alguma quando sua bicicleta se chocou com aquele caminhão, mal conseguiu ouvir quando o gerente da floricultura gritou pelo seu nome.

Não percebeu que enquanto os grossos pingos de chuva molhavam sua face ainda sorridente suas últimas palavras foram “As flores têm cheiro de morte”.

—-

No matter the color, size or species, the only rule was: Saturday was a day to fill the house with flowers.
Learned from her grandmother did not matter whether it was rain or shine, every home that lends itself has flowers and smells spread through the rooms. She was twenty when decided to live alone, and was happy when she found a small kiosk surrounded fake daisies in the square not far from his home
And then became a tradition.
Every Saturday your alarm clock ring at 7 am, she get out of bed and put some jazz to play while preparing your strong and bitter coffee. Then she took her old bike from the corner and pedaled happy until the square in pursuit of finding the most beautiful cut flowers of any garden.
The owner of the little flower shop was waiting for the girl’s with freckled face and red hair. He loved watching how she chose what kind of flower she gonna take home. And it was always the same, every saturday she entered the store, hung her coat behind the door and closed her eyes while take a deep breath.
“It’s better to see,” she said when she opened her eyes and met the manager staring at her. He never argued against, after all, the whole scene had a certain charm.
And her ritual continued as she strolled the aisles. Smelling, feeling and talking with all the flowers until pick up those who would carry the basket of the bike and decorate the house.
She liked to see the colors, feel the texture and smell of each. Every Saturday was a different choice she doesn’t had favorite flowers. For her all would be part of your own garden.
That Saturday to protect from the rain she dressed plastic boots and the jacket waterproof, she took the old bike out on the street and began humming a song while was smiling.
She did not feel any pain when his bike collided with that truck, barelyshe listening when the manager yelled her name.
She did not realize that while the thick raindrops wetting his face her last words were “The flowers smell of death.”

 

 

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