Back to Cuba, Part II…of III

I’m sitting back down in front of this screen again because Aaron took the boys back to the camper and gave me my own evening—showing me love in many ways these days. He’s probably driving up our muddy driveway in the Tacoma right now, managing (like we just keep on doing) to not fall down, down, down into the ravine. Some days that’s the highest level of success I can manage, or so I tell myself when I get to the top—excellent job, try again tomorrow. At least…at least, right? And now back to December, when I ran away to Cuba with healthy antidependent inspiration. I gotta find new ways to describe what desperation looks like when it swamps this filter of a spirit of mine. And maybe that’s what it’s been this season: a deluge of mud and moss and roots and shale, amassing in my lungs and at the back of my skull where my head meets those first few cervical vertebrae. But let’s not forget the life-wrenching (I mean this) love that comes with human (and kittums and pup) connection. It still dissheveles me when I relinquish power, lifting my nails out of the imprints they’ve dug into my palms. So, if you’re wondering, I was in no way deserting my family the week of Christmas. But I did fly to Miami and then fly to Havana, Cuba. Because I decided to, with the help of Aaron, and Mom, who literally packed my bag while Sylvan was lying on my chest in a fever—Thank you, I love you, I mean this. The boys were more than fine on Christmas, covered in love and so much excitement at Mom and G-Pa’s. So yeah, there’s no apology. But concern away, if you must!

Back in Havana, I got to meet Arturo’s mother for the first time, drank my first baby cup of café that week, and released myself to be right where I was. Then he drove me to Boca Ciega, 30-ish minutes outside of Havana, and La Puma made it there just fine, even if it was raining hard down on the glass in front of our faces. We turned around and pulled off onto dark, empty streets. Asking along the way, referencing the house description with the name Rubiceida attached, we got there: a four-story house, 20-seconds from the waves, the beach, the edge of Cuba.

I met Idarme first, one of Ruby’s daughters. She showed me the bottom-floor apartment and I calmed Arturo and affirmed him in his scouting skills. He said See? I take care of you! And then he went and filled their book out with his info. Ruby had agreed to this because he told her I needed to be alone and I speak Spanish and I was his friend, after all, so she really could trust me. That night Idarme gave me the menu for the restaurant from which I could order food when I got hungry. Just let them know what I wanted and they’d call it in for me. I asked about rum and they said I should wait until the morning to walk down and buy a bottle. I started reading my book that night and I never did order from that menu. Shit, I’ll need to add another post, because there’s more—because my time was more than lovely. So much more. See, I wanna go sit with Banning for a few minutes before I drive home in the Fit and walk up our beautiful mud pile.

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