Ódio ou amor? | Hate or love?

 

É verdade que em pequena eu não era bonita e que era muito rebelde. E também é verdade que eu e ele nunca nos entendemos. Na escola, ele puxava as minhas tranças e eu acertava-lhe caneladas com tanta força tinha; ele empurrava-me na fila para o lanche e eu cuspia-lhe em cheio; no recreio acertava-me com a bola e eu devolvia-lhe em chicotadas com a minha corda de saltar.

Era sempre ele que começava, mas eu não deixava passar uma e devolvia sempre as maldades que ele me fazia. Não fazia queixas a ninguém. Simplesmente devolvia o troco daquilo que ele me fazia.

Tornámo-nos jovens na escola grande, sem nos falarmos: ele um rufia, que eu a muito custo admitia ser giro; e a minha beleza a despontar e a dar nas vistas, e ele a recusar-se a olhar para mim.

Depois chegou a guerra. Faltava pouco para acabarmos a escola. Ele partiu e eu fiquei. Ele foi um valente e forte soldado. Eu fiquei a fazer o que fosse preciso: a dar as aulas possíveis aos mais pequenos, a ser enfermeira dos soldados que regressavam feridos, e a cuidar da terra para que tivéssemos um pouco mais para comer. Acho que também fui valente.

Quando a guerra acabou, ele regressou, com o corpo cheio de feridas. Quando nos encontrámos frente a frente, e depois de alguns minutos a olhar profundamente nos olhos um do outro, dissemos ao mesmo tempo: “Desculpa!”.

Cuidei das suas feridas com a mesma força com que lhe dera caneladas, e com o mesmo entusiamo com que lhe dera chicotadas com a corda de saltar. Ele foi afável e delicado como nunca fora.

Pediu-me em casamento assim que se restabeleceu e pediu-me apenas que no dia do casamento levasse as tranças como quando era criança. 

It is true that as a young girl I wasn't pretty and was very rebellious. And it is also true that he and I never got along. At school, he would pull my braids and I would kick him in the shins with all my strength; he would push me in the snack line and I would spit right in his face; at recess, he would hit me with the ball and I would lash back at him with my jump rope.

He was always the one to start it, but I never let anything slide and always paid him back for the mean things he did to me. I didn't complain to anyone. I simply gave back exactly what I got.

We grew into young adults at the big school without ever speaking to each other: he was a tough guy, whom I grudgingly admitted was handsome, while my beauty was blossoming and turning heads, yet he refused to look at me.

Then the war came. We were close to finishing school. He left and I stayed behind. He was a brave and strong soldier. I stayed to do whatever was needed: teaching whatever classes I could to the little ones, nursing the soldiers who returned wounded, and tending the land so we’d have a little more to eat. I think I was brave, too.

When the war ended, he returned, his body covered in wounds. When we came face to face, and after a few minutes of looking deeply into each other's eyes, we said at the same time: "I'm sorry!"

I cared for his wounds with the same force I had used to kick his shins, and with the same enthusiasm I had used to lash him with my jump rope. He was gentle and kind in a way he had never been before.

He asked me to marry him as soon as he recovered, asking only that I wear my hair in braids on our wedding day, just as I had when I was a child.