Alexandre Castro e Silva, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door…, I met her the next morning, and she told me her husband had passed away a month ago. Her children had already married, so the house had become too big for her. He decided to move downtown because he likes people and going to the theater. He asked me: "And you, Mr…!" "Lopes! I work at the shoe store and have lived here for over thirty years. My wife passed away two years ago, and I live with my daughter and son-in-law. If you need anything, I'm here to help." "Thank you very much, Mr. Lopes!" That same night, a box was heard being dragged around at three in the morning. Still unable to sleep, I hear the building's door slam shut. I peek into the entrance hall and see three large men carrying a large box from the woman's apartment next door. And I think: what the hell? What is this woman doing? Could it have been a robbery? Or are they carrying the old woman in the box? No, it can't be! It must be my insomnia! Carolina Bacchi, Psychoanalytic Institute of Northern California (PINC) UNDERTOW On April 1st, an elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. She had difficulty climbing the stairs—slowly, stopping every four steps, she would catch her breath and stay focused on the task of reaching the third floor. The apartment was small and bright, facing the sea. The living room window was wide, and when opened, it flooded the space with a light and pleasant breeze that cooled the heat and filled the room with the scent of the ocean. Luiza was 75 years old and had always dreamed of living by the coast. She postponed it her whole life, raising children and putting aside unfulfilled desires. The apartment had been for sale for some time. Luiza had visited the building the previous summer, stepped into the apartment, and stayed silent, watching the movement of the waves. The real estate agent broke the silence after about ten minutes of waiting. Did you like it, ma'am? My husband used to surf when he was young. We had plans to live by the beach, but we ended up swallowed by the daily life of the big city. He passed away two months ago. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Luiza. I did like it. She left the building and crossed the street to walk along the beach. The warm sand lightly touched her sandals as she remembered Antonio, wet, standing on his surfboard. Lu, one day we’ll move to the coast. He would be surfing the waves, while she would be writing a book. That day never came for Antonio. The life they had left no room for youthful dreams.
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