Loving Che by Ana Menendez

Author:Ana Menendez
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2003-08-20T16:00:00+00:00

Farewell but you will be with me.

LETTER ON THE ROAD

I sat with Teresa’s letters for a long time. I was not so removed from exile chatter that I didn’t understand the implications of her story. Miami was not a city for romantic heroes; here, an association with the revolution was something to be hidden, denied, and ultimately forgotten. Any hopeful joy I might have felt at Teresa’s words was tempered by the story that contained them. In the confusion I felt at that moment, I was moved to throw the entire contents of the package away and I may have actually stood with that intention. Instead, after a moment, I carefully restacked Teresa’s letters and photographs. Barely aware of what I was doing, I packed them back in their box. I sealed the edges of the package with masking tape and then I found a length of twine and wrapped it tight. I pushed the box into a closet, setting it on the highest shelf.

Some days later, I drove to my old neighborhood. I had not returned since my grandfather’s death and was surprised at how little the streets had changed, how familiar the houses seemed. There was the same porch and steps leading up to the front door and the window that I used to look out from, imagining the world that lay beyond, the people I would meet, the woman I would become. It was late afternoon, but the street was deserted. I parked across from the house. The driveway was empty and the blinds had been pulled down shut. Someone had planted red geraniums under the windowsills and the lawn was trim and green. I waited there, looking at the house for a long time, waiting for someone to enter or leave. I dozed for a while in the heat. When I awoke it was getting on toward evening. I sat up in the car and caught, in the distance, the figure of a small boy walking slowly up the sidewalk toward me. He was dressed quite formally for the heat, in long shorts and a white shirt whose short, wide sleeves only emphasized the thinness of his arms. The purpose with which he walked—leaning slightly forward from the waist—made me think that he was small for his age, for he looked to be no more than about five, but even with the distance I could make out the furrow in his brow. His black hair kept falling into his face as he walked and now and then he swept it away angrily with one hand. I watched him, barely able to move. As he approached the house, he slowed. He stopped at the sidewalk in front of the house. He turned and looked at me. I sat very still. A minute passed, maybe two. Then he took his gaze away and started walking again, past the house, up the street and I followed him with my eyes. When his tiny figure turned in the distance and vanished, I rolled up my window and drove away from the house.

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