Minha avó, great-grandma to my daughter. 

Victória is her name, and it suits like a glove. 

Matriarch in the truest sense of the word. 

Self-made swimmer. Ferocious reader. 

Of the kind to open and close a book, to its conclusion, in a single afternoon.

A life advice: as the sun is shining outside, one shouldn’t watch television. 

Her aura is infused with glamour, the scent of Jasmine, that faraway gaze.

And yet, my favourite image of her: it was an early morning and she wore pajamas.

The thin cotton fabric floating knee-high above the green carpet.

Hers is the kind of heart that will choose your happiness over hers, even if it hurts.

Her age is but a detail, she travels time like she always belongs, in the now.

Hers is my favourite meal back home.

O feijão, o franguinho milanesa, o pudim de leite. Infused with secrets and handfuls of love.

Marinica-Minha-Flôr: You engraved this calling in my soul.

I rest my head on your lap again, and again, and again. 

You stroke my hair and the jingle of your rings put me to sleep.