Obrigada
by Marilyn Duarte
Arrival
On the rowdy streets of Lisbon’s Bairro Alto, tourists sing loudly, and sway like the droopy streamers hanging above them, connecting from one tiled building’s façade to another.
As she walks aimlessly along the cobblestone road, she is approached by three blond-haired boys from Norway, none older than twenty, wearing matching white, red, and blue outfits, who compliment her short, navy dress, and insist on taking a picture with her. Vœr så snill, vœr så snill, they urge. Underneath crisscrossing rolls of Lifesaver Candy, she poses between these giggling strangers, and forces a smile.
Zoom, focus, tap.
Check-In
Her friends like, laugh, and love this photograph on social media. Someone comments that it could be a J. Crew advertisement.
No one mentions that her eyes are glassy, that she has lost too much weight too quickly, that they hadn’t seen her smile in months.
No one questions why she is fading.
No one knows it’s because the blue-eyed man an ocean away recently told her that she couldn’t be taken seriously, then met someone who could, and now she feels like she can’t breathe.
Unpack
In the morning, she travels north on a bus for an hour. Sheep graze in the fields next to the winding road, signalling that her father’s house is near.
He is not home when she arrives, or maybe he is, but he will not answer the door. Even though he is sick, knows he is dying, he refuses to see his daughter. Trying to save him hadn’t been enough. He’d wanted a miracle.
Shielding herself from the midday sun, she stands across the road, underneath the fresco tree. Her eyes follow the sloping terracotta roof, then watch the peeling strips of brown paint flap against the house.
Departure
Inside Lisbon’s Sé Cathedral, she lights a candle at the statue of Saint Anthony. She blows out the matchstick and spots a toothless, elderly woman with a black kerchief tied tightly around her head, staring back at her. Above them, pointed arches reach for the sky.
The widow smiles at her and nods as though she knows. Knows that the girl wished for the candle’s flame to burn away the insurmountable sadness she carries from loving those who never loved her.
The woman walks towards her, places a hand on her shoulder, and mumbles a prayer.
Obrigada, the girl whispers. Obrigada.
Marilyn Duarte holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Tampa’s low-residency program and is currently a Staff Writer at Longleaf Review, a Creative Nonfiction Contributing Editor at Barren Magazine, and an Assistant Creative Nonfiction Editor at Pithead Chapel. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Barren Magazine, (mac)ro(mic), Emerge Literary Journal, and elsewhere. Originally from Toronto, she now divides her time between Canada and Portugal. You can find her at marilynduartewriter.com and on Twitter @MareDuarte28.
