Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • The little town close to Rio where my dad stubbornly lives and attends his patients is the epicenter of an earthquake in Brazil since last Monday. When I spent some dramatic months there in 2004, I could learn of different tactics of lying, slander, betrayals, sabotages, falsity. The heavy and dirty game of politics caused to our family more than unending prosecutions, but personal delusions and a deep touch of dissolved family. Suddenly the amenities of smiling and adulating partners became the teeth of hyenas wishing a portion of our flesh.

    But in spite of all the terrible moments and to keep the survival of his good name, dad has kept some of his loyal political partners by his side, mutually feeding themselves with a helping net. One of these fellows is Professor Bichara, granddad of João Felipe, a six years old boy.

    João Felipe was taken from the school in the early afternoon by an intimal friend of his mom, Suzana. The 22 years old girl was also manicurist of João Felipe‘s mom . Now she alleges to have done an abortion of a child of herself with the boy’s dad, her ex-lover, all the facts according to her words. Who knows the truth?

    The boy went happily with the girl in a taxi to a small hotel downtown, laughing and playing. In less than two hours she killed him asphyxiated with a towel, took his clothes off and put his little corpse in a luggage. She was caught in a few hours, right after the sunset, when the policemen found the boy already in the packed at her home.

    Today I listened to a Catholic music singing something like “a son who loses his father, his mother is called ‘orphan’. A mother, a father who loses a son, a daughter, what is he or she called of? There’s no name. It’s a pain without name”. It’s a proper music of Holy Week, and the week began so, so, so… suitably significant of the fight between Good and Evil, in Human lives rotten by envy, the closer the object of desire, deadlier is the bite of the serpent.

    Dad told me that it’s been hard to sleep. In a small town, the malignity of the murder resonates as deaf in the heart as the last fight to breathe of the little boy. There are no words for the horrible feeling of the suffocation coming closer and closer, now in America, now in Africa, now in Arabia, now in China, now.

    Everybody needs to recognize a pattern in the chaos and define the name of the enemy. In my minor Human questions, that word has no name, but has a place. A word has been fighting to be said of a mother, a father who loses a child. It’s in a tip of a bifid tongue. Which tip will dare to pronounce the Order of Life’s backwards?
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.