Harvest celebration

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His little black eyes, the reddish crest, with thin paws and yellowish feathers, paraded in the backyard. I was scared, but I ran so boldly. And when he walked, until with a certain rhythm, they moved his neck. Despite scratching night and day, his life still seemed less stupid than Dona Maria’s. It was Sunday, more special than the others, the harvest had been abundant and blessed by some deity. Dona Maria, a responsible and right woman, woke up especially earlier than on other Sundays. He washed his face in the basin, put on his slippers and walked towards the yard. There, Carijó and Garnisé seemed to be especially more agile, but it wasn’t. Dona Maria, who was noticeably older, lost the speed of her legs with the days, but she had the cleverness of life. They were the last two chickens in his yard.
It was a special Sunday, and I had to choose which one to eat. Dona Maria, not only chose, but chose the fattest. Its slender paws ran more than ever, its wings fluttered frighteningly and planned flights that were only small, and innocent, leaps. Dona Maria didn’t think she would have any reason not to kill her Carijó. He was hungry for meat and… by the way, who thinks with his head what the belly imposes? Dona Maria not. There was no feeling of pity, because if one day she knew how that feeling torments ideas, life made a point of erasing it from her memory. It was by jumping on top of the poor that Dona Maria made her way of catching the runaway. Despite the fact that Carijó was running, she didn’t even plan where. It was no longer possible to say who was more tired. But every time Dona Maria’s hunger encouraged her and Carijó’s fear of dying made her feel worse.
It was in a low and sure jump that Dona Maria fell on her stomach on the dirt floor with Carijó in her arms. The chicken, already surrendered, and seeming to understand its end, calmed down. Dona Maria, without hesitating and without postponing the time of her life, unsnapped the animal’s neck and, without allowing time for a sigh, soon passed the knife. On the clothesline, he let the blood run, which was already collected by an aluminum canister that was below the carcass. Sunday was really special, the chicken with brown sauce celebrated the harvest and the certainty of another season without hunger. The neighbors, as soon as Dona Maria sauteed the garlic, already noticed the aroma of the party. The vegetables were from the yard, and the polenta was the result of the barter of his last two eggs. The father ate all the kids, Dona Maria insisted on sucking the paws, and the three children shared the breast meat. Leftovers were purposely calculated, which were not quite leftovers because everyone wanted more. But he stayed for the next day for the lunchbox of the father who worked and, after all, ate more than the others, not for merit, but for imposition.

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