Veronica Vega’s diary

Bradbury came to me through a friend during those times when I still had black tea and the invocation of a book along with the music of Vangelis, which were enough to undertake a long journey.

It was that time of day when the thermometer soared, when electronic equipment demanded air conditioning or else risked burning out, and when everyone who was forced to wait in the open — but having at least a minimum freedom of movement — took refuge in some small island of shade.

Here in Cuba, if any extenuating circumstance provides some measure of relief against the waning of desire, the fatigue caused by the sun or an environment that exudes abandonment, it’s the conversations one hears involuntarily.

I remember that when I was a little girl, I liked to walk around outside our apartment building and search through the grass for treasures that chance would place in my path: a piece of gold-foil paper, a button in a peculiar shape, a piece of a toy… (8 photos)

A writer read an essay that began with: “I was born in a country that no longer exists.” I ignored the fact that she was born in the former German Democratic Republic since I had no doubt that she was talking about Cuba. But what was most curious was that I wasn’t alone in having that impression.

My son is sad because his best friend Leo, who now lives in Miami, — despite their having shared years and games, secrets and dreams, despite their last embrace, teary eyes and attachments that made them exchange e-mail addresses and promises — he has not sent a message.

As the popular saying goes, “You only value what you’ve lost.” It’s a sad statement – right? But since I’m trying to be fair, I always add that memories too are created and later recalled through the prism of nostalgia, with plenty of those memories becoming adulterated.