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  • Two couples of months before Leonardo and I move from Curitiba to dad's apartment, dad visited the place with us to take some few stuffs he left in a closet.

    He opened a door and a beautiful and very old red male shirt rose from inside. Then he said that the shirt was a relic from his father. I touched the shirt, wondering my grandad inside that small piece of cloth, smaller than I've ever thought my grandad was. That was the deep red color I like so much, and maybe it's also a good remembrance for dad to keep with him that piece which held his dad's body still in movement.

    It was easy to see myself giving life and movement to that shirt again, in spite of it seemed to be impregnated by the "spirit" of my grandfather still within. It was a tacit agreement between dad and me that I would not to wear that shirt, because it was my grandfather's cloth.

    I don't remember my dad using colorful shirts often, so I always thought of my grandfather using B&W or gray or khaki - clean and sober clothes. It's sometimes strange to think that he knew me - the only grandkid he had ever known before he passed away when I was under one-year old. As for sure I don't remember him, seeing that deep red was a surprising feeling of connection with an origin for me.

    I'd make movements with that spirit in the shirt, but maybe it would be sinister to dad, who saw the original movements when the memories were still life - that beautiful living kinetic presence, then and always. Dad knew I would my eyes were staring grandad's piece and didn't give me the chance to try.

    It was my first and last hug to grandad in those red sleeves, like capturing for a moment a bird that should remain sleeping in a cage.
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