Sunday, June 18th, 1994
Dear Diego,
Today is Father's Day and I am thinking a lot about you. I review feelings stored in my heart and memories kept only for myself - memories that go back as far as the year of 1955 when I was the happiest four - almost five- year old girl in the world! I couldn't think but of our coming summer vacation to the state capital. You did not share my enthusiasm for spending three months in Belo Horizonte. You hated big cities, didn't you? You would on1y join us for Christmas and go back to the farm.
I myself did not remember much about this huge city where I was born and where Mother grew up. I didn't even remember the many cousins Mother had told me I liked to play with, in Grandmother's house. Young as I was, I could only keep in my memory those who were close to me. I just related that big city to lights, cars, beautiful houses, and shop windows. And Christmas! And my birthday! We always spent Christmas and my birthday in Belo Horizonte, right? That year I had most probably asked Santa Claus for a doll, a ball, a piano, and a bicycle. Those were my favorite toys. What would I get that time? How anxiously I waited for that trip! With the help of my little fingers, I counted the endless days before our summer vacation.
Although I was very excited about the busy days ahead, please, don't think I didn't love our life on the farm. I loved swimming in the pond or in the rivers with my brother, my sister, and my cousins! And how exciting was jumping on the piles of com and rice in the bam! I couldn't think of a better life than riding horses, climbing trees, running after chickens, looking for nests with eggs in the sugar cane fields and among the banana trees.
But then, to my mother's despair, you would always come up with something more challenging and different for us to do. My strongest memories of you were on your motorcyc1e and your truck. I don't understand how, but you managed to ride my brother, my two sisters and me on your motorcycle, all through the unpaved road the led to grandfather's farm. And the times you let us drive your truck! One at a time, with you by our side. My mother's complaints against such dangerous adventures were always interrupted by your soft kiss, followed by, "There's nothing to worry about, dear. I don't want my children to have any kind of fear".
I had no fear. I remember you always had a hard time taking me out of that fascinating machine. I don't remember, however, what I ended up having for Christmas that year. I don't
even remember where we spent Christmas and my birthday. By the end of November, we were called back to our farm because you were very sick, they said. While we, kids, sang in the car, my mother cried all the time. I could not understand the real reason for her tears, even when she finally told me you were dead, not sick. I did not remember having heard that word before and I did not know what that meant. When my mother told me you had gone to heaven, I got even more confused. Why was Mother crying if heaven was supposed to be a place where we have Christmas every day? But I guess, telling me about your death made her feel better. She stopped crying and I went back to my songs.
Your funeral was a great event in our little town. I had never seen so many people in my whole life. I remember my excitement at the idea that my rich uncle from Rio de Janeiro had arrived in his private plane with his young wife who was a movie star! But I wanted to be where all the excitement was and I couldn't. I had to be at my aunt's house and play with my cousins. Where was Mother? Why couldn't I be with her? I understood nothing of what was going on, just that you had gone to heaven and not taken us "Why didn't he take us to heaven with him?" I kept asking myself. They did not let me see your corpse because of your smashed neck, they told me many years later. All I knew is that you had gone to heaven and lots of people had come to town because of that.
It did not take me very long to forget you. Young as I was, I could only keep in my memory those who were close to me! But when I was a teenager, I began to need you very badly. All my friends' fathers were alive. I hated it when people felt sorry for me because I was an orphan! I wanted a father to laugh with me and to tell me what I cou1dn't do. I needed someone to set my 1imits, so that I wou1dn't have to set them myse1f. I needed someone to share my mother's responsibility for our education, so I cou1d stop being extremely responsib1e myse1f. I cried alone all tears I didn't have at your death.
I felt guilty and rniserab1e for all the excitement I experienced at your funeral. I quite often dreamed I was happi1y ho1ding hands with you in a park. But every time I turned to you to ask you something, I screamed at the cruel reality of your ske1eton. Although you seemed to be smiling, I feared the image of your skull and your bones on my hands. You were dead, I needed you, and you cou1d not be with me the way I wanted.
I cou1dn't see a tractor without shivering and thinking that you had died under that same tractor you had many times taken us on rides in the fields. Since you were alone that night, nobody knows how that tractor turned upside down and smashed your neck. And why didn't you jump farm the tractor? Everybody thinks you were sure death wou1d not come to you at the age of thirty-seven. Mother a1ways said you 1ived 1ife without questioning the next minute, as if you were eternal. But you weren't!
When I was a young adult, 1ife was tricky enough to make me work in the purchase department of a big company, buying tractors of all kinds. To overcome that fear I had for tractors, I became an expert on them. My boss was puzz1ed by my interest in those machines. He kept telling me I didn't need to know everything about every piece of equipment I bought. It's like buying a black box ", he would say: “You don't need to know what is inside it or how it works. You just need to know how to get the best deal", he wou1d add. But I knew better. I wou1d even go to the company's patio and sit on most tractors I bought. I was again that courageous chi1d you had a1ways expected me to be.
My fear was gone, but not the anger of having lost you to that stupid machine.
I wish my mother and you had taught us to call you 'Dad' instead of your name, 'Diego'! I guess you thought we wou1d have the years ahead to learn that you were 'Dad', not my brother. Or maybe you just did not want to spoil a little boy’s happiness for being called that way by the younger sisters. Why and when did all that start if we were all so dose in age? Mother doesn't remember anymore. We soon started calling my bother by his name. But not before you died.
I love you, DAD!
Maria Cristina Vasconcelos
Dear Diego,
Today is Father's Day and I am thinking a lot about you. I review feelings stored in my heart and memories kept only for myself - memories that go back as far as the year of 1955 when I was the happiest four - almost five- year old girl in the world! I couldn't think but of our coming summer vacation to the state capital. You did not share my enthusiasm for spending three months in Belo Horizonte. You hated big cities, didn't you? You would on1y join us for Christmas and go back to the farm.
I myself did not remember much about this huge city where I was born and where Mother grew up. I didn't even remember the many cousins Mother had told me I liked to play with, in Grandmother's house. Young as I was, I could only keep in my memory those who were close to me. I just related that big city to lights, cars, beautiful houses, and shop windows. And Christmas! And my birthday! We always spent Christmas and my birthday in Belo Horizonte, right? That year I had most probably asked Santa Claus for a doll, a ball, a piano, and a bicycle. Those were my favorite toys. What would I get that time? How anxiously I waited for that trip! With the help of my little fingers, I counted the endless days before our summer vacation.
Although I was very excited about the busy days ahead, please, don't think I didn't love our life on the farm. I loved swimming in the pond or in the rivers with my brother, my sister, and my cousins! And how exciting was jumping on the piles of com and rice in the bam! I couldn't think of a better life than riding horses, climbing trees, running after chickens, looking for nests with eggs in the sugar cane fields and among the banana trees.
But then, to my mother's despair, you would always come up with something more challenging and different for us to do. My strongest memories of you were on your motorcyc1e and your truck. I don't understand how, but you managed to ride my brother, my two sisters and me on your motorcycle, all through the unpaved road the led to grandfather's farm. And the times you let us drive your truck! One at a time, with you by our side. My mother's complaints against such dangerous adventures were always interrupted by your soft kiss, followed by, "There's nothing to worry about, dear. I don't want my children to have any kind of fear".
I had no fear. I remember you always had a hard time taking me out of that fascinating machine. I don't remember, however, what I ended up having for Christmas that year. I don't
even remember where we spent Christmas and my birthday. By the end of November, we were called back to our farm because you were very sick, they said. While we, kids, sang in the car, my mother cried all the time. I could not understand the real reason for her tears, even when she finally told me you were dead, not sick. I did not remember having heard that word before and I did not know what that meant. When my mother told me you had gone to heaven, I got even more confused. Why was Mother crying if heaven was supposed to be a place where we have Christmas every day? But I guess, telling me about your death made her feel better. She stopped crying and I went back to my songs.
Your funeral was a great event in our little town. I had never seen so many people in my whole life. I remember my excitement at the idea that my rich uncle from Rio de Janeiro had arrived in his private plane with his young wife who was a movie star! But I wanted to be where all the excitement was and I couldn't. I had to be at my aunt's house and play with my cousins. Where was Mother? Why couldn't I be with her? I understood nothing of what was going on, just that you had gone to heaven and not taken us "Why didn't he take us to heaven with him?" I kept asking myself. They did not let me see your corpse because of your smashed neck, they told me many years later. All I knew is that you had gone to heaven and lots of people had come to town because of that.
It did not take me very long to forget you. Young as I was, I could only keep in my memory those who were close to me! But when I was a teenager, I began to need you very badly. All my friends' fathers were alive. I hated it when people felt sorry for me because I was an orphan! I wanted a father to laugh with me and to tell me what I cou1dn't do. I needed someone to set my 1imits, so that I wou1dn't have to set them myse1f. I needed someone to share my mother's responsibility for our education, so I cou1d stop being extremely responsib1e myse1f. I cried alone all tears I didn't have at your death.
I felt guilty and rniserab1e for all the excitement I experienced at your funeral. I quite often dreamed I was happi1y ho1ding hands with you in a park. But every time I turned to you to ask you something, I screamed at the cruel reality of your ske1eton. Although you seemed to be smiling, I feared the image of your skull and your bones on my hands. You were dead, I needed you, and you cou1d not be with me the way I wanted.
I cou1dn't see a tractor without shivering and thinking that you had died under that same tractor you had many times taken us on rides in the fields. Since you were alone that night, nobody knows how that tractor turned upside down and smashed your neck. And why didn't you jump farm the tractor? Everybody thinks you were sure death wou1d not come to you at the age of thirty-seven. Mother a1ways said you 1ived 1ife without questioning the next minute, as if you were eternal. But you weren't!
When I was a young adult, 1ife was tricky enough to make me work in the purchase department of a big company, buying tractors of all kinds. To overcome that fear I had for tractors, I became an expert on them. My boss was puzz1ed by my interest in those machines. He kept telling me I didn't need to know everything about every piece of equipment I bought. It's like buying a black box ", he would say: “You don't need to know what is inside it or how it works. You just need to know how to get the best deal", he wou1d add. But I knew better. I wou1d even go to the company's patio and sit on most tractors I bought. I was again that courageous chi1d you had a1ways expected me to be.
My fear was gone, but not the anger of having lost you to that stupid machine.
I wish my mother and you had taught us to call you 'Dad' instead of your name, 'Diego'! I guess you thought we wou1d have the years ahead to learn that you were 'Dad', not my brother. Or maybe you just did not want to spoil a little boy’s happiness for being called that way by the younger sisters. Why and when did all that start if we were all so dose in age? Mother doesn't remember anymore. We soon started calling my bother by his name. But not before you died.
I love you, DAD!
Maria Cristina Vasconcelos
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