Rhythms of the End: Mothers, Waterfalls of Life in the Alfeite Neighborhood

The leaves fell with the slowness of a sigh, staining the floor of the Manteigas forest with hues of gold and copper, a veritable natural cathedral. The distant murmur of the Poço do Inferno waterfall mingled with the song of a nightingale, though I could not spot it despite my searching. I leaned against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak and allowed myself a pause, overlooking the gorge of the Ribeira de Leandres. I lost myself in such beauty, a true fairy tale that carried me back to the comfort of childhood—those nights when my siblings, Chau and Mito, and I would nestle into our parents’ bed, listening intently to my mother’s stories until we drifted off, clinging to one another, my father absent overseas.In that instant, Poço do Inferno became a well of memories, a place where Life and Death coexist, where the present led me to honor all women.

If my last words were dedicated to my father and all military men, it is only fitting that I now dedicate this to them: the mothers.The mothers of the Alfeite neighborhood, extraordinary women who were far more than just mothers—they were warriors, teachers, homemakers, conflict mediators, and often true village women, caring for one another and for each other’s children as though we were one large family.

The Alfeite neighborhood was a village within a village. Many of these women lived alone while their husbands served the army, some stationed overseas, others absorbed by long military careers. Some could not read or write, yet they knew how to educate. They knew how to teach about life, how to endure, how to survive. And what resilience! In modest homes, on tight budgets, they transformed little into much and built warmth out of nothing.

I grew up in the street, like so many neighborhood children. And what a street it was! A childhood of laughter, shouts, and scraped knees. We climbed trees like little adventurers, swearing we were kings and queens of invisible kingdoms. Every branch was a castle; every hut, a fortress against imaginary enemies. We invented games like There Goes Garlic—so chaotic in its rules that I still wonder how we didn’t break ourselves in two. Perhaps my back still aches from those escapades. There were Kings and Queens, the Floral Games, and who could forget the boys dressed as women in Miss Portugal? It was pure joy, part improvised theatre, part unbridled laughter.

We played the handkerchief game, the rebuke game, dots, marbles, bottle caps… and spent hours building a world of our own. And then there was Pluto, our adopted dog. He was not just a pet; he was an official member of our gang of children. Loved by everyone, he ran free as we did—belonging to all of us and to none of us at once. Pluto, with his canine freedom and loyalty, taught us that belonging to everyone could also be a form of freedom. Until one day he went hunting with a neighbor and never returned. A mystery as great as the disappearance of marbles during our games. It was an early brush with Death, something I could not understand then but felt deeply.

My mother worked long hours, and our house became the neighborhood headquarters. We played scavenger hunt, hide-and-seek, even climbed onto my parents’ bed from the top of the wardrobe! I remember Dona Maria, our downstairs neighbor, who, upon seeing my mother return from work, would complain about the noise: “Dona Esmeralda, the lamp almost fell!” And, of course, came the punishments. The cruelest was being forbidden to play outside at night. But we never stopped. And why? Because we did not have just one mother—we had many. Every woman in the neighborhood was a little bit our mother, and every house, a little bit our home.

These women were true heroines, even if they did not always feel that way. They carried the absence of their husbands with silent strength. I imagine their lonely nights, pillows damp with tears, conversations that never left their lips. When my father was overseas, we slept beside my mother. She told us stories to soothe us, though often she fell asleep before finishing—and we, wide-eyed, nudged her to continue. It was a fairy tale where the magic was born from simplicity.

Working, educating, washing clothes by hand—because washing machines did not exist then. The neighborhood mothers were true artists of survival. They fit a whole world into a small pot, sewed dreams into patched clothes, and turned scarcity into unforgettable childhoods. Today, remembering all this, I feel a lava of emotions rising within me, an eruption that demands to be shared.

I want the world to know: the women of the Alfeite neighborhood were the heroines of a generation. Some are still alive, others have passed on. To all of them, not only I, but every child who grew up there, owes deep and eternal gratitude. Thank you for your tireless dedication, for the love that warmed our souls, for the resilience that shaped our futures. You were, and remain, the foundation of who we are today.

Sitting here at Poço do Inferno, the waterfall rushing endlessly among the rocks carried me back to Alfeite, which also flowed with that same vitality. But instead of crystal waters, it was filled with intertwined lives, silent sacrifices, and a love that shaped generations. You, mothers of Alfeite, were not only wells of life but also rivers of hope, shaping the destiny of every child who grew up there. Today, your legacy echoes like the waterfall of Poço do Inferno—unceasing, alive in our memories and in our hearts. Thank you, mothers of Alfeite, for being our Well of Life.

Dedicated to my mother, and to all the mothers of the Bairro dos Serviços Sociais do Alfeite

Esmeralda da Silva, na Base Naval do Alfeite