'Carry the Light' Excerpt: Dream Angel

Editor's Note: For the first time in the history of the San Mateo County Fair, a 300-page anthology has been published that includes more than 100 stories, poems and essays from writers who submitted award-winning work for the fair's literary contest. The idea was the brainchild of Bardi Rosman Koodrin, a San Bruno resident who runs the fair's literary contest, and the anthology, titled "Carry the Light," features work from many Peninsula writers.

This story won first prize in the senior essay category for this year's San Mateo County Fair literary contest.

From p. 240, "Dream Angel"

The man of my dreams is not a lover.  I haven’t had the thrill of holding his hand or been privy to a friendly embrace.  I’ve never even had the pleasure of hearing his voice.  Still, his image is all too familiar, a mere snapshot in time, reprinted on the opening page of a Spanish poetry book from 1929.  For much of my youth, the lime green volume of ethereal love poems  rested atop the living room mantel.   All I had to do to bring a smile to Mom’s face, was to turn to the black and white photograph of the handsome writer pictured on page one. 

“That’s my father, Adolfo,” my mother said, barely above a whisper—the love in her heart, breathtaking to a little girl.

Then we both stared at the young poet.  There was so much to take in.  The gentleman’s wavy coifed hair was cut to perfection, evoking the grandeur of a movie star.  His face was accentuated by slight, though masterfully chiseled features. Not to be forgotten were the mind-sustaining deep set eyes, which mysteriously gazed out into the universe in thoughtful repose—searching, wondering, in reflection for all eternity.  In the silence of the moment, they generated a sense of pride, of accomplishment.  It was as if he’d intended to pass along a message, deliberate, unspoken, yet entirely clear:  I too must spread the word and share his language of love.

Over the years, I learned tidbits about my grandfather, the scholar, who besides being a prolific romantic poet, had also been a physician and a politician.  Eventually, I would come to know the tragedy of Adolfo’s life and my family’s.  He was assassinated while in office.  Even so, it was turning the pages of his singular poetry book that left an indelible mark on my soul, along with the desire that by writing beautiful prose, perhaps I could impress my mother to the extent that she would love me even more. 

I already had Daddy’s attention, being the eldest child. Years later, I composed editorials for local newspapers, and my father enthusiastically shared the published copies with the world.  The more vocal he became, the more I ventured to please.  Mom kept silent, whereas Dad clipped the articles and designed a scrapbook.  Good intentions aside, lingering in the back of my mind was always the picture of Grandpa and the intensity by which my mother cherished his poetic gift.

When I turned sixteen, I decided to translate several of my grandfather’s poems from Spanish into English.  I took the project a step further by lavishing the childlike calligraphy upon sheets of 18-inch long, color-coded construction paper. It was a simple creation, but the end result brought my grandmother to tears.  Mom smiled, though words escaped her.  In the heat of the moment, it occurred to me that her heart might’ve been hardened by Adolfo’s premature death.  I yearned for the chance to go back in time and meet that schoolgirl, who laughed freely and loved without reservation, before the killing.

Journaling helped me through difficult times, more than ever, the day Dad died.  That night, I wrote feverishly, as teardrops soaked my notebook, unable to contain the cries of desperation, hoping that the madness would become the remedy for my broken spirit.

After the funeral, as I sat in my parent’s kitchen, my mother spoke to me in private.

“When your father got sick, I put this aside.  I thought you would like it now,” she explained, reaching behind the counter, and releasing the dusty binder my father had painstakingly crafted, into my care.

“I thought it was lost. Thanks, Mom,” I said, as my eyes began welling up.

It was as if she had understood all along, and was saving the best for last.

I continued to record my thoughts daily, from that day forward, for nearly fourteen years, until I completed my memoir, and my dream to write and publish a book came to fruition.  To accompany the text, I included a pictorial insert containing over 185 photographs.  I chose to begin the display with the only other print in existence, of the man in my dreams.  This first snapshot is of my grandmother on her wedding day, draped in white, as a flush of baby’s breath gives life to a crown of pearls upon bangs of short bobbed hair.  She is gracefully situated on a lace veiled chair, beside her gallant husband, Adolfo.  He stands tall and lean, handsomely swathed in elegant black tails, as a single white rose adorns his left lapel, while his hands rest gently on the shoulders of his inamorata.  I’m grateful for their union, and for my grandfather’s affection, which is left behind in each passing verse.  Because of his commitment, I was given a wonderful mother, whose careful consideration encouraged me to dream big, even when words escape me.     

Excerpted from "Carry the Light" with the permission of Sand Hill Review Press, the publisher. The book is available for purchase for $12 on Amazon.com.

Elizabeth Fajardo, a native San Franciscan, is an award-winning writer, publisher and the author of two books: Storybook Dad, a memoir, and Eavesdropping on Angels: 10 Tips to Survive Job Loss from 10 People Who Inspired Me. She enjoys San Francisco baseball and was formerly a Giants usherette. In 2011, Elizabeth won honorable mention at the county fair for her essay, "A Slap Instead of a Kiss, the Real Reason the Princess Woke Up."