When we got off at the village on the banks of the Acajatuba, my mother’s mood changed. I don’t know what made her so gloomy. Perhaps it was the setting, or something about the place that was painful for her to see or feel. She didn’t want to go to the wedding, much less wait for the festivities, the fireworks, the fish barbecue by the side of the river. My mother was frightened of getting back late to Manaus. Or, who knows, she was afraid of staying there forever, thirsting for the past, entangled in her own memories.