Dear Rui. This is your family.
Today is my Mom’s birthday, October 7th. Your Grandmother, Lois.
That’s Mom and me, Rui.
With your Uncles Neal and David. I think we’d moved to this new suburb in Dallas not long before. New duds, too.
Your Aunt Karen.
Your Grandpa and me, small and new at six months old.
The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set;
only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.
The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor;
but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.
I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.
– Rabindranath Tagore