Cartas que nunca vinieron, cartões que nunca chegaram
I do not know the sound of their voices,
abuelas y abuelos, avós e avôs, whose laughter
echoes only in stories,
como un río invisible,
carrying memories I cannot touch.
Their handwriting,
was it soft and slanted,
Or sharp and crisp,
I imagine it inked on yellowing paper,
letters never sent,
cartas que nunca vinieron,
cartões que nunca chegaram
yet somehow still folded into my skin.
But what does it mean
to carry their names
and not their stories?
Their words were lost before they reached me,
Brazil and Argentina in my veins,
But their songs never reached my ears.
And though their voices hum
through the roots of my blood,
I have never stood
on the soil they called home.
Does that make me a fraud,
a shadow stretching too thin
across borders I have not crossed?
I was born in America,
my tongue heavy with English,
learning their languages
like a guest at the table,
never their child.
But their words do not dance in my mouth.
I stumble,
trying to catch them,
fingers brushing only shadows
of voices I wish I had known.
I press my ear to the past,
hearing only silence.
What did their love sound like?
Would they have called me querida,
meu amor,
their voices wrapping me in warmth
I never felt firsthand?
Instead, I feel the ache of saudade,
for what, I am not sure.
A longing for places I cannot name,
for voices I will never know,
for a heritage that feels
like a house without keys.
Sometimes, I hold a pen
and try to write in their voices.
But the ink does not flow right.
It is mine, not theirs.
Their voices are lost,
but still, I carry them
in the roots of my tongue,
in the rhythm of my heart,
in the words I cannot forget:
família, saudade, hogar, amor.
Perhaps the knowing is not in the hearing
or the seeing.
It is in the feeling,
the way their absence makes space
for me to grow,
a story still being written
on a page
they began but could not finish.