It Is Wood, It Is Stone

by Gabriella Burnham

  And then the time arrived. I took a breath and remembered that even permanence isn’t lasting. São Paulo would always be here, still evolving, when we decided to return.

  Marta came into the living room, dragging our two suitcases behind her.

  “Come,” she said. “My sister is downstairs. She will take you to the airport.”

  I hadn’t expected to ever meet Felina, the bridge that connected Marta between her two worlds, our lives and theirs. When I saw her sitting outside our apartment in a gray Toyota Camry, a wooden rosary hanging from the rearview mirror, I felt Marta’s entire life had materialized in an instant.

  “Oi!” she said and cranked the emergency brake, hopped out of the car, and gave us both a hug and a kiss. She made room for us in the backseat, put a dog kennel in the trunk, and swept a few empty bottles of Guaraná to the floor, so that we all managed to fit.

  This was Felina. She sounded like a song when she spoke with Marta, repeatedly tucking her hair behind her ears as she drove, her attention shared between her sister and the road. The sky opened to a warm sun that splayed across my knees and arms. Felina rolled down her window and opened her palm against the blowing wind, occasionally diving her hand like a river dolphin. Through the gusts I could make out the radio, faintly, playing Elis Regina. Marta hummed along.

  When we arrived at the airport, Felina left us with a final hello and goodbye, this time three kisses for each. The passenger side door cracked and Marta stepped out.

  “Tchau,” she said and hugged me, pressing the side of her mouth against my cheek. When I thought she might let go, she held on for a few seconds longer. I felt the sorrow burning my nose and my eyelids. I almost let the tears fall, but then I saw Felina and Marta exchange an ancestral smirk, one that can only pass between sisters, and my sadness lifted. They waved to us from the window, Felina blowing kisses as they drove off together, a puff of smoke hovering in the car’s wake. You took my bag, and I followed you through sliding glass doors. We were on our way home.

  For Anna

  Mom: Thank you for valuing art and thus teaching me to. Thank you for giving me a connection to Brazil. For offering to hand out flyers and sell copies of my book out of the trunk of your car. I love you.

  Karina, Simone, Aunt Lili: When I met you again, as an adult, it was like a hidden part of me opened up. Thank you for showing me São Paulo and Atibaia, for sharing your life with me. Thank you for the late nights, the philosophizing, the singing and dancing, all of which is the soul of this book. Saudades. Eu amo vocês.

  Nicole Counts: Thank you for your heart and for your mind. Thank you for challenging me and for seeing me. For contemplating life with me over breakfast. This book is yours, too.

  Marya Spence: Thank you for being the best agent in the business. For your patience, your love of literature, your empathy, and your shine. I am lucky you always listen to my long, rambling voice messages.

  The One World/Random House team: I feel so much gratitude for all of you. Thank you for treating me and my book with such dignity and care.

  Flora Medawar, my sister: Thank you for the many years of joy and friendship. We’ll still be laughing when we’re wrinkled, wreaking havoc in matching golf carts.

  Avis Medawar: Thank you for being such an important pillar in my life.

  Sumitra Rajkumar, my dear friend and writing comrade: Thank you for understanding the pleasure and pain in writing. Thank you for contemplating it with me over countless dinners, drinks, writing circles, texts, and voice messages. We share in this journey together. (And thanks for Rob Quatrone, too.)

  Kelly Castagnaro and Karen Good Marable: Thank you for being my writing sisters-in-arms. Thank you for always coming through with the strength and wisdom.

  John Glynn: Thank you for telling me that it was possible before I believed it was. For going first and letting me learn from you. For providing the industry insight. Thank you.

  Blakney Young, Mira Jube, Claire Minihan, Amelia O’Connor: Thank you for the group chats and island times. For listening to me as I found my way. You are the best of friends.

  You too, Hannah Hawkins.

  Lauren Malinowski: We are #olddogs for life.

  Pavan Dhillon: Thank you for feeding me your mother’s Indian food after work. For calling me from San Francisco. For your friendship during those MFA days. Thank you.

  GLOW, aka Glorious Ladies of Writing: Thank you for the early-on friendship and community.

  To the teachers who shaped me, especially Anne Phaneuf, Justin Torres, Jackson Taylor, and Flaminia Ocampo: Learning from you made all the difference to me. Thank you.

  Anna Burnham, my sister: This book is dedicated to you because I couldn’t have written it without you. Thank you for being my sister, friend, ally, neighbor, and family. I love you.

  And to Emil Hafeez, the true love of my life: You are in every word I write. Thank you for you. I love you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  GABRIELLA BURNHAM is a writer based in Brooklyn, New York. It Is Wood, It Is Stone is her first novel.

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