To my precious daughter,
Here is a short poem
Made of breeze and sun touching your skin
Your feet
Feel the burning sand on the beach
You cry
I carry you in my arms
Blow away the scorch.
I am taking you there
Where the cold is just a fine drizzle
Or walking barefoot on tiles
And there is the scent of orange trees
And the cica taste of cashew apple
The crunch of guava
Hundreds of jackfruits smashed on the ground
And the body is not constrained
Everything is filled with savour and restlessness
My lyrical self will only hold your hand and follow you
Wherever path you choose.
I am a conduit of information, a bridge where you can move back and forth. So, when you hear my voice singing along with Fundo de Quintal or chitchatting with vovó, vôvô and tia Mariah, you might feel the longing for my samba, your grandma’s food, the beach, carnival and a collection of other things. What can I do? I am soaked in what the salty Atlantic water carried south. I was always on that side of the bridge until I crossed to this side, and I do what I can to show you the pillars that keep me upright. My intent is to keep the gates open for you so you can access both sides, because you deserve it all.
You might be fifteen or twenty years old when these words begin to unfold for you. By then, the weight of this longing may not settle on you because you will grow up here, but I know you’ll be able to see the tenderness my work carries toward you.
