The Sewing Needle’s Weight
HAVANA TIMES – I know my writing radiates sadness. Maybe it’s from the nights I spend lying awake, with the heat, the mosquitoes and the thoughts that keep coming back to the same idea: on this island, life always feels on the verge of falling apart.
I’m used to living with the rope around my neck and a sewing needle in my fingers. Sometimes I believe I’ve stitched up a tear, but then, before the seam takes hold, a new rip appears. I mend clothing, hopes plans.
The problem isn’t in the act of stitching – there’s a kind of tenderness in saving what you love. The problem is, when you have to live with only patches, every heartbeat in your chest stops beating with life, and becomes a mechanical act of survival.
Of course I like the light! I’d like to write about other topics: about the miracle of feeling the first sip of coffee explode on my palate; my daughter’s laughter before getting on the bus to school; about those gestures my husband makes when he’s gaming on the PC and thinks no one’s watching.
I wish my computer keys were algae rocking in the ocean currents; my phrases a ray of sunlight that filters between the damp leaves after a tempest; I yearn for pages full of flowers, neighborhoods just awakening, carefree afternoons searching for shapes among the clouds.
But my words always return to the same place. I think that sorrow has placed a magnet under my skin, and I end up trapped in its field.
It’s not all hunger, misery and calamity here. There are still fulfilling moments – a simple meal shared with family and friends; the laughter that bubbles up at my daughter’s funny notions; my husband’s embrace, my mother’s advice, my brother’s kisses. Those instants save me, let me breathe deeply and remain calm. But they’re only small islands in a river where the current is flowing the opposite way.
I’ve tried to embrace that idea that “everything can be achieved with a positive mindset,” but reality is stubborn. Just when everything seems to indicate that the stars have aligned for me, something breaks and what seemed a good beginning melts away.
I’ve been asked many times why I don’t leave Cuba. The truth is, it’s not for lack of desire but of resources. Traveling requires having your own money, or, in other cases, the help of someone willing to finance your flight. I don’t possess either of those two options. There’s also another, more intimate reason: I’m afraid to begin all over from zero in a foreign land. Afraid I’ll miss my family, not adapt to another culture. I want to live here, where I was born, with my rights, on my streets and with my people, and not have to limit myself to surviving.
In the end, perhaps my lines exude sadness because I can’t resign myself to silencing it. There’s a vital necessity within me to transform the weight of that needle into something tangible that can be read and recognized. Among my patches, I still hold on to the capacity to dream of a different type of needlework, one that doesn’t only cover tears, but allows me to construct a future where laughing isn’t an act of resistance.