It is a time capsule in the first person about life on an island mislaid in the ocean.
40 years ago I lived in a world lost in the waves of the sea, of south winds and embraced by torrents of mist. Everyday life was temperate, as the weather, neither too hot nor too cold. The hours were lost in their wandering, there were no clocks, and the awakening depended of the dawn and the cock crow and the resting on sun sets hiding behind the line drawn in shades of blue by the ocean. The news from the mainland came through tampered letters immediately burn, without really having accomplished its mission. Fear has no borders, was bigger and wider than the distance that separated us from the nation's capital.
We lived pretending we were first class citizens, but we were mere islanders who depend on themselves to survive in a kind of floating big rock. The nature and the seasons were our allies in this fight, but the island also required sacrifices that were printed in the form of white crosses in the cliffs. Poor souls who stumbled into the end of the basalt camouflaged by late morning on a journey of arduous toil to forward the precious water that would kill the thirst of the small harvests. The land was fertile and there came the livelihoods of households consisting only of mothers, small children and the old. It was a place almost devoid of young men, forceful and able. The ships were to blame; they journeyed towards a new world with promises of abundance and wealth, catching our fleeing men in search of chimera that would bring more wealth and less deprivation. But, enough memories whispered. But, they insist, and I remember how the light was scarce on the horizon and tried to finish sewing the sheets for the trousseau of my dream daughter, did not know yet the face of his father, nor her name, but she will sleep in my arms one day, as my mother knew I would be born and my grandmother sensed that she would deliver a girl. There will always be a Mary in our family, except perhaps my future daughter. It was necessary to prepare everything before your arrival, so your life won't be as hash as mine. I recall that once a week had to go into the city at the time it took over an hour to arrive. It cost two escudos hoarded with great sacrifice. It was an undulating trip, made of curves, counter-curves and stops along the way to gather more grow that shook to Funchal in search of sustenance. Halfway the overload was felt. The machine resented spewing black smoke and a smelling of burning oil that accompanied us until the exit. Finally, we arrived to our destination; there was much confusion bags of sackcloth and wicker baskets full of fruits, vegetables to be sold at the Farmers Market. I waited for my turn, pushes and cries of impatient for my precious pack wrapped with meticulously care containing the embroidered cloths, with the exception of yours, those they were kept in a chest with scented moth balls to avoid being eaten by moth. In return, the money from my work though meager, was used to buy more fabric, flour and yeast to kneading bread that your grandmother would shape with her skillful hands. And time goes by, forty years to be precise. I too left the Madera and have returned, everything changed for the better. Modernity has left its mark in the corners of the island. But the islanders, this islanders, these remain lost in the mists of fog, still without being sighted on the distant mainland.
