Home Sick

Mom, Age 5, April 20th,1958, Havana, Cuba

I became aware of the orange-red horizon in the distance. The gentle rocking of the boat caused the light to come and go on the deck where I laid. Beneath tightly shut eyelids I saw light, shade and light again. I turned onto my back with my head rested on her lap so that when I opened my eyes towards the heavens the first thing I would see was that of her face. My stirring roused one of the few moments of sleep that she's had in days. Mami looked down and smiled an apologetic smile. I reached up and caressed the softness of her cheek, brushing away the hair matted to it. I became aware of my thirst which complaint would not help. My small pink tongue vainly tried to soften dry sun cracked lips that tasted of sea salt. The sounds of coughing and whispers or perhaps prayers, lingered in the background. Neither God nor angels would reply that day, our only respond was that of endless sea, who’s orange reflection would soon turn deep shades of abysmal green, nothing like that of the turquoise shores where we boarded. And yet, I felt safer and the agony of another day at sea, another squall, hunger and thirst seemed endurable as long as she was at my side. I took in those few seconds and stored them where the temperate storms would not wash them away, safe, never to be forgotten.

And so, these are the memories which we keep all of our lives; the small insignificant ones that become all that matter. It is memories like those that stay with you forever and define who we are. They shape our worlds, our definition of love, of survival, that become oral tradition, and make one miss home.