Yesterday we had a really great time at the barbecue. We played secret friend and my gift was a chronicle collection book that I’m loving.
There are many from a brazilian author I like a lot, Rubem Braga.
A chronicle he wrote that I like most is one entitled The Dead Man’s Feet. It’s not in this book but I just remembered.
I wouldn’t dare to translate it here but I can tell the story, my simple way.
Here it goes:
The dead man’s body was there in the funeral, lying in the coffin. A few ladies , some young, some not so, crying beside it.
Suddenly, to surprise of all, the dead’s feet started moving from one side to another.
After some hysteria the doctor was called and diagnosed: he was still dead, having post-morten contractions.
Post-morten contractions, huh? Where, Dead Man, did your feet want to take you and you haven’t allowed them to go? Where would they have gone if you had let them go? Under the table of a bar? To the house of some lady? Where, Dead Man?
At least one day in our lives let’s give all freedom to our feet. Let them walk wherever they want, through ways we suppose wrong. Let them walk, let them walk, so that they don’t move desperate and anguished stuck to our dead bodies.