My grandfather owned for life one farm,
where he and grandma raised the family,
raising also horned cattle and pigs, and
raising to the mounts a coffee plantation.
They were married for their entire life, and so
their entire offspring.
They had thirteen sons and daughters,
my father, the youngest, the thirteenth;
thirteen those who were gathered
at the Last Supper.
The farm was known as the Water Mill.
The mill, an old one, producing corn meal
that grandma, in a brick kiln, turned into
succulent cakes.
The water from a creek that flowed down
since the hill to the mill wheels.
Then, going to the farm, we always asked
which was the route to go to Paradise,
So it was named its hinterland.
The creek was named the Singing Creek.
I always thought that after crossing the farm,
its waters flowed to one of the four rivers
that it was said relieved over Paradise.
Remembrance smells to me as of old tales
like those we hear from the Holy Scriptures.
Although I know bygones must be bygones,
I cannot avoid feeling its scent this very day,
and still I hear the Singing Creek moving wheels
of an old, ancient Water Mill.
Published in West Ward Quarterly, print issue, Spring 2014.
edilsonmeloferreira 