Because at that time,
on that day,
in that moment…
You weren’t there to hug me.
I love you, Mommy.
Until the next letter.
And that is how this story began. Certainly with that child, with wide, deep eyes, who needed to write letters to talk to her mother up in heaven. That is when the writer was born.
How to exist?
It extends over time. It is continuous. The many faces. Redirection. And there is the world around us.
Come get to know more of my stories, from a young woman in the countryside of Brazil to international experiences in Portugal, Spain and Australia.
