Elisa Balabram

My dad used to say this expression, fala bolacha, when everyone was quiet in the car, at the dinner table, or when we were walking the dog. To break the silence, he would say, fala bolacha, meaning—say cookie. Usually, someone would be prompted to say bolacha, and a conversation would start, not necessarily related to cookies. As I grew older, I would respond, biscoito, another word for cookie or cracker, and he would comment on how it wasn’t the word he said. I’d often say that I liked being a contrarian, or we would simply start talking about something else.  

A week short of the six-month anniversary of his passing, I happened to be in my hometown in Brazil. My husband, my mother, brother, his wife, niece, aunt, cousin, sister, and her husband were having lunch at my parent’s place on a Sunday. We were eating quietly, and I considered two choices to break the silence… I could say, que silêncio! meaning–how quiet! or I could say fala bolacha. I chose to say fala bolacha. While my cousin promptly responded bolacha, my sister-in-law explained that there —in the state of Minas Gerais — people do not say bolacha but biscoito. Bolacha is used in São Paulo. Afterward, I learned that several states in Brazil use the word bolacha, while many others use biscoito. I was not sure if my sister-in-law had never heard my dad’s conversation starter, if she always had this conversation with him when he asked, or something else. 

It didn’t matter. We started a conversation about words that are used differently by Paulistas than by Mineiros. Since my niece was attending university in the state of São Paulo, she shared her unpleasant experience saying a word that did not have the same meaning there as in Minas Gerais. Then, the conversation moved on to others sharing similar experiences while traveling to other parts of the country. I do not recall silence returning. There were many examples or other related experiences to share, and conversations flowed with ease. 

It warmed my heart that Dad’s strategy came to the rescue, and helped break the silence, as if he was present without being there. I don’t know if others were thinking of my dad like I was as that happened, yet it felt good to bring him to the lunch table. I wonder if he ever kept track of how conversations progressed. Knowing my dad, I imagine he didn’t. He may have held on to the satisfying feeling of the power a simple expression had, but other than that, Dad likely moved on to the next interaction without much reflection on what was said or not said. 

It feels heartwarming to incorporate Dad’s way of being into our day-to-day lives. It seems, to me at least, a wonderful way to grow space around the heart and the grief. It gives breathing room and, in some way, minimizes the yearning for his presence, even if briefly. During that trip, though, I chose not to take any family photos. The thought of registering any moment without having him present felt too painful.