Should I, or shouldn’t I? Oh, what the heck.
From: Isabel E. Díaz
To: Roberto Puertas
Subject: All moved in
Hey Robi, how are you? It’s beautiful up here. My apartment isn’t too far from campus, so the walk won’t be too long. E-mail or call me anytime you want. I hope we’re still friends. Sorry about the whole Andrew thing. You were right, he was a jerk. I guess I had to see it for myself. Take care.
Love, Isa
There. I left the door open for him. If he wants, he’ll get back to me. In fact I know he will. We’ve been friends for way too long for him not to. I click “send” and watch my message sail off into cyberspace.
It’s only been three days since Papi went back to Miami, but already I have a care package from my mom. I haven’t even started classes yet. As if she didn’t leave me enough rice and frozen platanitos. I sign for the box, then hurl it onto my cheapie sofa…my sofa, in my living room, in my own apartment.
I look around for my keys (to my own apartment) and find I’m sitting on them (on my own sofa). I puncture the packing tape and slide the key between the box’s flaps. There’s packing peanuts, newspaper, and an assortment of things every good little cubanita will need while living in the harsh, Sedano-less environment of an American college town.
Packages of little merengues. I love these things. Dulce de guayaba, Cuban crackers, lots of black beans. Vicks VapoRub? Napkins? I absolutely can’t live without a stack of thirty Wendy’s napkins, now can I? A jar of roasted red peppers and some azafrán seasoning for all that arroz con pollo I’ll be making. The little doll from the Cuba Expo. Ah, here’s the stuff—a Cuban coffeemaker and vacuum-packed brick of Café Pilón.
What’s this? Could she have wrapped it in any more paper? I unfold the flat, rectangular item. And there, in a nest of tissue, sits my old painting of the egret, along with a mini American flag from Sedano’s. There’s a note attached:
I’m sending you this little bird to keep you company.
Besitos,
Mami
P.S. Llama a Robi, por favor..
Jeez, a woman with a mission! She doesn’t know that I already beat her to it.
Behind the painting I find something else—a large manila envelope with something hard and flat. I unclasp the flap and pull out a mini Cuban flag with a framed photo. Not just any photo. She sent me the photo. The one of my grandparents holding each other, squinting under the Caribbean sun. Their house, clothes, and smiles gleam from an era washed away into the sea, a Cuba of Varadero days and Tropicana nights.
“It’s okay, abuelos,” I tell them. “Your deaths weren’t in vain. We’re happy, we’re safe.”
I take the stuff to my bedroom. The photo goes on my night table, the flags here in my pencil cup, and the egret painting, I hang above my bed. I lie there for a while looking at it. It seems so out of place here in the land of pine trees and snowy winters. But after staring at it for a while, I close my eyes and float into a peaceful sleep.
I dream of swamps and saw grass, anhingas and herons, humidity and storm clouds…and the sweet scent of the approaching rain.