Being fifty years old, I have almost no memories of my childhood experiences, other than those memories that, for one reason or another, have been etched in my memory.
I remember that my father was always a man connected to agriculture, and for him, cultivating the land and waiting for the result of what he spent most of the year doing was his greatest passion.
In the beginning we didn't have a good relationship. And I believe that this distance between us ended up cooperating in the growing feeling of unhappiness within the family.
Due to the hard work, my father rarely spent time with me, as he was always busy in the field with soil preparation, planting and the harvest that would come.
I suffered a lot from his absence, especially in my pre-adolescence, when a whirlwind of doubts related to the world began to spring from my mind to punish me. With that, sometimes we would fight; other times I played the victim and isolated myself in the bedroom, not talking to him for days.
For me, my dad lived more in the countryside than in the city. But when an opportunity to be with him arose, I tried hard to get out of my tiring routine of having to wake up every morning to go to school.
Once, while I was storing a wooden crate in the body of the D-10/86, Dad asked me:
"Son, do you want to go to the field with Daddy?"
"When are you going, Daddy?" I asked.
"Today. Dad has to take this part for our tractor to start working again..."
As it was a vacation, I agreed right away, of course!
Hours later, the trip from Goiânia to the city of Santa Silva in Mato Grosso, as I remember, took a long time. And as sometimes my buttocks got tired from sitting so long, Dad would stop at the side of the road for us to pee, or for him to pick fruit that fell from the trees to the side of the road.
Those stops were just joy for me! After all, what I wanted the most was the chance to test the paper kite I had made with the leftover materials from the last "Festa Junina". But I remember that one thing happened:
“Dad! Daddy! My kite got stuck on the pole!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "Can you get her out of there?"
As after a lot of trying, Dad couldn't rescue her, after we left I could only look out the rear window of the D-10/86 until the image of the kite disappeared completely in the nostalgic landscape that was gradually being left behind.
A while later, perceiving my sadness, he tried to cheer me up:
“Hey son, you don't have to be that sad. I promise I'll buy you another kite just like that in the next town."
In the field, the hut was built in the lowest part of the land, about fifty meters away from the ponds that housed the fish. With wooden logs placed side by side, the roof of the hut was covered with dry coconut leaves.
There were no neighbors nearby, and the nearest town—called Rondolândia—was located thirty kilometers from where we were.
In an environment totally averse to the things of the big city, my soul soon became calm, more pacified, and little by little I was purifying myself from the technological intoxications that most children today, from an early age, learn to adore.
The first thing I did when I arrived was to put the new kite that Dad had bought up in the sky, as the winds were still favorable.
"Dad, do you want to play with me?"
"Of course, my son!" he said excitedly when he saw my kite up there. "Now let daddy show you how to get a straight one..." then he took the spool from my hand, and as soon as the kite was engulfed by a stronger wind, he started to touch to the right, and when it plummeted down, he was picking up the line with both hands.
"Look at the kite doing a straight line!" he said.
To be continued...
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