From the in-between pen of Maria Clara Paulino at Writing in the Margins
To my brother L,
Yesterday you would have been 54. I brought you white and red carnations – white, for perennial youth; red for splattered blood. I lingered a little longer than usual to tell you about how things have been around here.
How strange it is that I come, year after year, and talk to you, and leave you letters in the flower vase, knowing the rain will soak the paper into mush, and the words will swell up, distorted into scary shapes; and the sun will make the paper dry, shriveled like a leaf burnt around the edges, parched so thin the words seem to stand on nothing, on transparency.
Yesterday, in remembrance of our conversations on the meaning of life, I talked to you about the unexpected as if you were really listening. ‘Life is the unexpected, that which you do not see till it grabs you and stares you in the face,’ you used to say.
Like your death.
But as I sat on the white rectangle that covers what once was you, I glimpsed several threads, some twisted, some full of knots, dancing in the air, connecting things. I was overcome with the feeling of something beginning, a new way of seeing; and of something coming to an end: my diffuse look upon myself and others, upon a life too odd to be made sense of.
I knew this was your gift to me.
A thread connected me to the woman who walked from the block of marble nearby and explained how the flowers would last longer if I placed them a certain way; the wind would pass them by without disturbing them. Another danced between her, as she walked away, the caretaker sweeping the alleyways, and the trees swaying in the breeze. Yet another pulsated from my heart, carrying my anguish of living in a planet empty of you. And then one broke, as I began to tell you of your nieces. It is still hard to see the sense in this: that you, alive only as memory, and they, whose life I wish happy and long, missed each other so completely, scattered pieces of an unfinished quilt.
I got up without leaving you a letter and hurried home to write this one – which won’t be soaked, or dried, or blown away, but will be my last. What a long goodbye ours has been! It is time to stitch the pieces together and finish the quilt to keep myself warm. Thank you, dearest brother, for the thread.
copyright 2011 by Maria Clara Paulino
Bio:
I live a life in-between languages and cultures (Portugal, England, Germany, France and the US), between disciplines (literature, art history, art criticism) and occupations (art history professor in the US and Portugal, writer, translator). I am also mother to two young women. I’m currently writing a fictional memoir, or is it non-creative fiction? I’m not sure. At any rate, professional demands in a country going through bad economic times (Portugal) are slowing me down. I was published in Portuguese (Danças com Gémeos) a few years ago and in 2010 started writing in English (and have no idea why!).
Sometimes, there is so much to say.. this is one such moments and then you say nothing, because anything you say will be inadequate, mundane and not quite what you felt. This is one such moment.
The reason you started writing in English is because I don’t know Portuguese.
To two of my favourite writers Maria and Cathy whose writing is nothing short of beautiful and inspiring and so full of character and life…
Cheers!
Padmavani
Dear Padmavani – I think you are right: The reason I started writing in English is because you don’t know Portuguese. I am honored and happy, yes, happy, that you read what I write.
I really enjoyed this Maria and am happy that the brother’s thread remains a part of the quilt.
What a moving letter! Thanks for sharing it…Take care.
Maria,
I’m not sure but this maybe the first time that I read something of yours. It touched my heart. No one understands the connection that you have with those dear to you that have been taken home early. I have not lost a sibling but my cousin who grew up as my sister has gone on to be with my Lord. I have not visited her grave because to me she’s not there but I have sang to her every birthday since her death. I still laugh at the jokes that we shared and my sister and I still talk about all of the things we did growing up as children.
I once told her growing up that I would be great and she supported me in all of my dreams.
Never let your brother go…keep that thread and make your quilt then add to it each year as you share your brother with your daughters and as you remember all of the fun times that you shared growing up.
I will follow your blog and I thank you for writing in english.
Cat
As always your blog is wonderful. Thanks for being you
RevLa
I can hardly imagine losing one of my siblings, and me heart hurts for you as you search for the words to keep your brother here…and real. A moving piece for the words left outside, and now those written in here for all of us.
MMF
You have a wonderful soul.
Hi Isabelle,
What a lovely thing to say. Thank you. I keep reading your blog and loving it. Still haven’t had time to honor your wonderful award but will do so in the next few days. We have one or two days off here (Easter holidays).
Thank you for letting us into this time MC. Your English is beautiful.
What you have written to your brother is timeless, outside of time, beyond our understanding of yesterday and today.
All these threads – the red, the black, the green and the gold join together. The patchwork of life, spun with this word: Love.
Much love to you and God keep you in His love,
Claire x
Claire, how lovely of you to read and comment so generously on my piece. May I take this opportunity to say how much I enjoyed yours as well. I hope we’ll keep in touch. I am so pressed for time these days but your blog is lovely and I will visit it as often as I can. I am honored to be included in this group and it is so important for me to feel that what I write genuinely reaches people.
@Megan, RevLa, Muriel, Kaye – Thank you all for taking the time to read and comment. In my current absolutely time-consuming job, it is so important to get your feedback; to know something went out from me and my experience, my relationship with my brother, to others. After all, this is what writing is for, I think, don’t you?
Simply beautiful. What a lovely farewell for a well loved soul.
Blisses,
K
Kristen – Thank you for writing. Yes, I did love him very much. I still do.
I can’t even image losing a sibling ( I only have one) but I can’t, nor do I want, to think about a life without her. Maria, this is visceral, heart wrenching, and poignant, all at once. It is a beautifully written letter and would sing if penned in any language.
Brenda
Brenda – Your comment makes my heart sing. Thank you for reaffirming the power of words written by one and read by others. We can all take something from another’s experience; that is the beauty of the thread.
Maria,
I too lost my brother, my best friend for all of my growing-up years. He was diagnosed with AIDS when he was 23 and died at 40 after a very long and painful journey, not only for him, but for everyone who loved him. I miss him so much. Your beautiful letter made me cry. Thank you for this connection to another woman who feels like I do whenever I think of him.
Tammara – Thank you for allowing the thread to get through to you. I am humbled that my letter made that connection. Thank you for reading it, and for writing to me about your pain and loss.
A beautiful tribute to your brother and the relationship you have with him.
Julia – Thank you!
Cathy, thank you for including this moving piece by Maria from her blog.
It must be hard to do what you have done over the years, writing these letters and leaving them. I don’t know exactly what I believe about the next life, but I truly want to believe your brother “hears” what you are saying to him. I believe in a oneness of all people who have come before, are here and will come.
My mother died when she was 50 and I was 18. I don’t think I would be able to open up my heart and talk to her again. Now I am older than she was when she died. I wish I could have done what you did, but I just couldn’t–it was too hard.
Blessings and thank you for your words,
Marilyn
Hello Marilyn – When I speak or write to my brother, I do it to the brother who continues to live in me.
I am sorry to hear about your mother and I find what you say very interesting. How does it feel to be older than she was when she died? Do you have a vivid memory of her? Thank you for writing about your story and for being so gracious about my piece.
A sad but loving tribute to your brother, who has strolled with you hand in hand across the soft evergreens of life and death, and the ghost of him remains alive and well inside your heart, your words painting letters especially the last. And your love and his are the threads entwining together, flowers of white and red. Beautiful story.