Passing Angel

Evangelina Vasquez

About the Author

Over the years poetry has been a source of cultural identity and healing. Evangelina Vasquez's poems bear witness to the fact that you never lose your roots, no matter where you are, or the ones you love, regardless of death. From her introduction to PASSING ANGEL, she writes, "When my daughter Leslie died on a hot summer afternoon, in the pool of our house in Monterey Park, California, a part of myself died too." Not only did she suffer the anguish of losing her baby but also her relationship with God.

But "through the magic of pencil and paper," Vasquez started to write letters and poems to Leslie, and in the process, an often agonizing spiritual journey, discovered her way back to love, acceptance, and reconciliation. This book of letters and poems, which spans ten years of self-searching, is a testimony to the Eternal Mystery and religious faith.

-Carol Lem


An excerpt from Passing Angel

January 24, 1989

My dear Leslie:

Today is the anniversary of the death of your grandpa Manuel, once more. He left too soon. If he had known you on this earth, he would have made you a kite with the reeds of the rivers' shores. He would have drawn a white butterfly on it and a multicolor flag, and he would have flown it, Diana, so that you could see it and be delighted, seeing it float in the warm air of the countryside, and how this got lost among the white clouds of autumn, there, high, very high, Diana, where you must be.

Sometimes I ask myself: Is fall going to take me? I was born in it. Diana, your name resounds in my ears like the tolling of bells at sunset when it rained, and busy, I crossed the big plaza planning my future. The languages men invent sound so phony!

In the sugar cane field, I'll get lost,
because I'll be so thin,
that I'll fit among the canes.
I'll be like the wind,
that gets in the eyes,
I'll be the humming bird,
sucking honey from the jasmine,
and the crossing of the lizard,
on the paths.
I will be a half of the yellowish moon over the city.
I will be the wandering dead in the old house on Lerdo
Street.
I will be those changing clouds that go by,
without remembering they saw us.
And I will lie down, near the City River,
to watch everything the passing water drags.
In that water my little paper boat will travel to the jungle
of a thousand faces.
I will be a kite glued to the wind
and the water of any rain puddle.
And I will be happy, because I will have taken your form.


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Passing Angel
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