Of Windows, Breads, and Christmas
By Fabiana del Valle
HAVANA TIMES – Beyond the waves, mutilated hearts wait and work, marking with their systoles and diastoles the years spent far from their land. Unable to endure poverty and lies, they risked their lives on the journey, achieving the desired goal.
Upon leaving, they left behind their grandmother’s kitchen, the scent of mom, the tight hugs of a child, the jokes of friends, the house that saw them grow. Today, they speak different languages, can make plans, have a car, and a house. Many adapt, pretend to forget, assimilate other cultures and traditions as if they were their own. But at some point, nostalgia arrives, the desire to relocate what they once left on the other shore.
The children of this island remain marked by fate, in Miami or in Havana, we are incomplete beings.
This year is almost over, and on the other side, those relatives who had the opportunity to escape will gather at dinner with new friends. There will be everything on the table, gifts under the tree, and the face of a mother smiling from the cellphone.
On this shore, Christmas has a different scent. Some decorate the living room with a tree without gifts and decorate the portals with colorful lights, announcing to passersby that in that house, a member managed to become a conqueror of borders. They celebrate for them and for the hope of one day being able to escape.
Others wait for Santa Claus leaning on the window, look at the bread roll that entered the ration store that day, think about the miracle of turning water into wine to celebrate with surviving friends and family, hold the hands of their children who do not understand the meaning of “Christmas.”
I am one who waits by the window, close my eyes, set my creativity free. Then, I become an all-powerful builder and raise a bridge where people from both shores gather for just one night, where they can give each other the hug they owe, smile together, and celebrate under the stars. Of course, at dawn, they return to the routine of working tirelessly, to the daily struggle to breathe.
It’s just the frame and me, impossible dreams, the hazy future, the bag full of “goodbyes.” What can I do when every day there are fewer loved ones by our side, when sitting at the table, we see the empty plate, when stale bread is not enough?
Nothing, just close the window and turn my back on the landscape in ruins. While in the street, the sea of sad faces moves like ants searching for something to fill the table, I embrace those who remain, smile with them, and forget for one night.