Juan Garcia waited impatiently in the drizzling rain for the taxi to arrive, gripping his battered suitcase, protective of its secrets. He dreams of Havana. Havana and the revolution. The sounds teeming with a passionate idea pushing the boundaries, pushing against itself, crashing and breaking over the streets. falling like rain into gutters of obscurity. Now he remembers, lost in scratchy memories, of those streets walled in, crumbling facades, voices yelling from window to window. For years he dreamed of shadows he can’t catch, like butterflies that have never known a caterpillar. Still, he smells of his father, stale cigar smoke, red wine, sweet custard, bread, cheese, sweat and rum. The inside of his soul smells like the steamy rice, garlic, tomato chopped fresh dipped in the oil sizzle trapped in the still air like a lazy man. Water dripping, humid, claiming everything. Water was the only thing there before…before Castro, before the revolution, before the island, before there was light. Even God says.
He shifts his eyes across the street, back to the apartment where he’s lived for months, over the bread and cheese that he eats on the cutting board, catching the scent of exhaust expelled from the back of a bus filled to the brim, pungent with the salty scent of alive, breathing dripping, becoming the drops that form pools from storms at the base of his spine.
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Copyright 2007 (c) Lis Anna All rights reserved