Echoes of Saudade: A Letter Across Time

Born in Brazil in 1982, during the tentative transition from military dictatorship to democracy, Clarissa is the youngest of four sisters. She grew up surrounded by transformative art, spirituality, and political activism, influences that shaped her into the graphic designer and illustrator she is today. For nearly a decade, Clarissa has called New York home, though she frequently returns to her childhood house in a quaint town in Rio de Janeiro. There, she continues her quest for ripe mangoes and holds onto the dream of one day having a swimming pool of her own.

Dear 9-year-old Clarissa,

For some reason, when I recall you at this age, I can only envision you in your ruffles and pastel green polka-dot summer pajamas. Isn’t it odd? Maybe the part of my brain that holds memories has become selective, or perhaps I yearn for ruffles and polka dots in my current life.

I’m not sure when this letter will reach you, but I hope it’s during the mid-afternoon, our favorite part of the day. Inside, everything feels silent, ecstatic, and frozen in time. From afar, the muffled sounds of children playing in their swimming pools drift in. You, however, are probably lying on your back, gazing up, imagining a whimsical house where the roof beams become the floor, and the floor transforms into the ceiling.

I sincerely hope you’re not out in the backyard, scouting the mango tree for ripe fruits; otherwise, you might miss the mailman’s knock. It’d be ideal if you were on the front balcony, spending hours observing eucalyptus leaves and seeds as they drift down like twirling tops. Then, as the cicadas commence their symphony, heralding the evening, this letter might offer a brief reprieve from the discomfort nesting in your heart.

I know, I know. You probably hoped this was one of those weekly letters from dad, not me (or should I say, future you?).

But maybe it’s time we confront this feeling,

Here.

Now.

With eyes shut and our hands intertwined.

Just us. You and I.

It’s like a wave, engulfing us, leaving us uncertain if the void stems from the past, the future, or experiences we’ll never have. It’s encapsulated by a Portuguese word that tastes of salt, sweetness, and sorrow: saudade. It’s akin to a delicate plant in our hearts, sometimes stifling, other times refreshing, nurtured by both tears and smiles. I deeply understand the ache you feel now. And I know it will accompany you in the years to come. It’ll punctuate many of our conversations with dad. Because, as time passes, it always seems fleeting. Yet today, 32 years later, I take solace in one truth: since our last farewell to our father, he’s always been with me.

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Moved by Clarissa’s story? She’s just one of the many voices in our vibrant tapestry of immigrant women storytellers.

A Heartfelt Thank You: Our ‘Immigrant Women Writing Series – Writing the Self’ initiative is made possible in part with public funds from Creative Learning, supported by the New York State Council on the Arts and administered by LMCC.