Poetry By
Michael Phillips
Published on: 11/2/2011
Saudade
There's a term for the ache that reminds you that what is lost will not come back. Nostalgia doesn't cut it; depression is too clinical. The Portuguese call it saudade. It's a condition that can kill if you let it. You must keep it tucked away in the periphery of your life. I keep my saudade in a cathedral I've built stone by stone, year after year. Why a cathedral? What better place to worship, grieve, and curse. It has lots of space and good echoes. It has a door that locks. In it I keep thirty-two autumns, the taste of honey crisp apples, my grandmother's laugh lines, a backyard in Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania, a rusty Chevy Celebrity, and a perfume whose brand I can't recall and whose wearer's name I can't speak. The past tires us out with each revisiting, but it is a good tired, like after swimming all day in Lake Winola when you're seventeen, and Budweiser and your girlfriend's green bikini constitute all that's good about being alive. I enter the cathedral and light a candle from time to time-- It's the least I can do--and close the door behind me.
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