That afternoon the sun’s rays stared at the clouds and its brightness blew the view. Luciana, mother of little Ana, who had never tried a blackberry, had lost the reason she never wanted to have. She was a first-time mother, delighted with motherhood, she wanted her daughter to understand nature, flowers, colors and fruits from an early age. He took the little one by the lake from his grandmother’s farm, where he had a blackberry tree that reminded Luciana of her childhood. There were hundreds of red and purple dots scattered among branches and green leaves, it was the celebration of that afternoon that the sun smiled at the union and delivery of the two.
Reference for WW2
The mother and daughter were barefoot, some ants stung their feet. Luciana took the child’s feet out in contact with the green grass and put disaffection for ants in her daughter’s heart. Nothing that would spoil the curiosity of a little girl with an eye on life and flavors. The daughter picked as many as she wanted from her foot, but when she took the first blackberry to her mouth, the mother, frightened, reproached. Luciana censured not only a blackberry, but the existence of an intrinsic desire to childhood, the curiosity for the taste, aroma and texture that now resonated as a ban in the heart of little Ana. What is bucolic in a blackberry, if not eating it of the foot? The would-be mother was not only so malevolent because she was naive.
He came home with the basket full and the child empty. At that moment Ana was tired, pouted like any other child would. Frustrated by the experience, the child cried. With the desperation of her daughter’s crying and the eagerness to facilitate her first contact with the fruit, Luciana made the juice of the blackberries harvested with sugar and without affection. He took from his daughter, so early, the right to understand not only fruits, but the crooked beauty of nature and the perfection that exists in the imperfection of everything that is alive. The juice he offered his daughter, even though it was from the fruit, was a sad and dead experience. Ana would take with her the false sweetness of things finished and not the real bitterness inherent in life.
photo: Live Journal