*** Excerpt from the ‘Querida Mãe’ chapter in the THE PORTUGUESE IMMIGRANT: ATLANTIC HERITAGE STORY
Sloshing over a damp, unpaved road through the village, each step in the mud brought her closer to him. She was donned in a black, hooded cape that covered her wholly from the misty rain. Her bright eyes glowed like a cat, reflecting off the sun that peaked through the overcast. Birds scattered for shelter, but the shifty weather could not deter her feelings. Flying parallel with the eagles that flew above the clouds, her heart soared just as high while her attentive gaze was focused ahead.
She was driven towards his warmth and kindness; he was the apple in her glittering eyes. When inhibition stood between, they denied their adoration for each other, fearing judgment from the townspeople. However, unbridled love saw no bounds and could not be withstood. Maria Angelina de Conceição Cabral, my bisavó (great-grandmother), defied taboo after falling in love with an older man. She encapsulated the earliest demonstration of nonconformity that I had uncovered.
Situated in the North Atlantic Ocean, on a remote utopia, her freguesia (village) was of a few hundred people that typically adopted conventional lifestyles of the time. On São Miguel Island, the islanders seldomly challenged the status quo. Their homeland is one of nine volcanic islands that make up the Azores archipelago, west of mainland Portugal. At one time or another, it was speculated to be the site of the mythical Atlantis, the lost city where buried treasures lie underwater. In whatever way, I had brought to light the legacy of my bisavó while searching for my family heritage.
She grew up hearing jarring tales of folklore and overseas conquests that contributed to the mystique of island history. Walking the storied coastline, haunted by generations passed, her journey’s end was approaching. She headed for the local variety store that sold everyday goods, where he ran day-to-day operations. As proprietor of the business, he was an influential member of the community whom she adored. As she came of age after the turn of the century, her heart was set on the middle-aged man, Manuel de Lima Meireles, my bisavô (great-grandfather). He was more than twenty years her senior.
“Bom dia, querida!” he greeted her as she stepped into the shop, stomping her wet feet on an entrance mat.
“Hello, darling. How are you?” she scrunched her cloak for excess moisture before entering the aisle. It was completely soaked beyond a beaver’s hat, but she was unfazed by the dampness.
“Todo bem, querida,” he gleefully answered at the sight of her. They locked eyes in a gentle stare as she took off the hood of her capote, the traditional garment for women. Her immaculate facial features came to light; healthy cheeks, fine lips with a sharp jawline, and those beautiful, starry eyes. A petite figure complimented her long, dark hair while she carried herself elegantly. As if the rain only helped her to bloom like a hydrangea. She surely enchanted the single men of her generation, but her heart was spoken for.
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