lisbon
After the funeral in Coimbra I took the train to Lisbon. I'm here. Really here, avó, in Graça.
Fátima gave me your notebook at the care home. Fourteen months of my postcards, corrected in pencil in your small handwriting. My English, mostly. And then, on almost every page, a little note in the margin:
Feira — Sunday? No. Tuesdays and Saturdays.
Jacarandas in October? June, João.
Bica 2,60 — in Luxembourg, maybe.
The van is from the computer. It never moves.
Snow?? Ha.
Marc.
On the last page you wrote: He describes it well. Don't tell him.
Today is Saturday. I went to the Feira da Ladra. It was open. I bought the teacup with the blue rim, one euro. A bica at the café by the miradouro costs sixty cents. The jacarandas on Avenida D. Carlos I are bare branches. The white van is gone.
I sat on your bench until it got dark, and then I sat a bit more.