The Dreamer: List 6

He pulled a magazine from beneath the books he carried. “I have been made a correspondent for Claridad, the magazine published by the students at the university in Santiago.”

“Neftalí, here by your name it says that you are enrolling in the university to become a poet.”
“That means nothing. It was just the editor’s presumption.”

“So Father has given up on the medical profession?” asked Laurita.
“My math grades.” He shrugged. “Father changed my destiny to business. At least I will legitimately be able to read French literature.”

A few days later, Neftalí arrived home to find his drawers ransacked and his notebooks strewn all over the floor of his room.

A few days later, Neftalí arrived home to find his drawers ransacked and his notebooks strewn all over the floor of his room.

“It was a mistake to ever allow you to work at any newspaper,” said Father. “I forbid you to abandon the chance of an acceptable profession. And you will not use my money for such a venture. Do you hear me, Neftalí?”

He hoped that the wind would not abscond with any of his loose pages.

A plume of smoke drifted upward from the pile of notebooks set on fire in the middle of the street.

His thoughts and cares and affections grew singed and curled. The remnants of his soul floated into the sky like gray snowflakes.

How could a writer be considered treasonous when all he did was present another view?

Now, he had a dilemma. This poem was to appear next week, not only in the university magazine but simultaneously in a Santiago newspaper.

“Good-bye, Neftalí.” Father gave him a curt nod and a stiff embrace.

Then, he wrapped Laurita in his arms and swung her around. “You must still be my emissary and send me all the gossip from Temuco.”

Still, when the last piece of forest disappeared and all that was left were stark adobe towns, he felt as if a piece of himself had been left behind, too.

There, in the obscurity of the big city, his writing was as persistent as the weather.

There, in the obscurity of the big city, his writing was as persistent as the weather.

Sentences grew long, then pulled up short, taking on the tempo of the waves upon the shore, or swayed gently, like the plaintive song of a lone harmonica.

His convictions played out with the monotonous determination of a printing press. And his affections became poems, as warm and supple as the wool of a well-loved sheep.

His convictions played out with the monotonous determination of a printing press. And his affections became poems, as warm and supple as the wool of a well-loved sheep.

The books traveled over fences…
...and bridges...
...and across borders...
...soaring from continent to continent...
...until he had passed thousands of gifts
through a hole in the fence to a multitude of
people in every corner of the world...
...their wings beating with the same pulse, their hearts eager to feel all that he could dream.