7,000 reais per month.
Three cars and a house
in the historic district
where her cachaça habit lived.
Long ago the letters stopped
arriving. No friends, too busy
for family, too busy to travel,
though Hawaii was always
sunny in her mind.
I imagined her still alive
the way the story unfolded
in half sentences. I imagined
nails digging into wall as she climbed
from rock bottom toward completeness.
I leaned in for the moment of clarity,
the punchline and feel-good ending.
Such sadness, I thought, was impossible
to sustain. I followed the phone line
as the Kaui all-inclusive buzzed,
awaiting Visa approval.
On hold for Hope,
I missed more sad details,
deaf to the Prozac adjectives
that moped about her life.
Then, too loud to ignore,
sixty years of living squeezed
between concise quotations:
“She died drinking a pinga
because she had everything
but was empty inside.”
LOCATION: Ouro Preto, Brazil
