Sunday, August 2, 2015
He’s dancing on the porch, swaying like a willow tree, beard winding down his chest now, eyes half closed. He’s singing along to the music on the record player. He forgets about the bottle of whiskey. He forgets about Olive weeding in the garden. He’s dancing on the porch and he’s back in Havana, back in a time that’s cola in a glass bottle and his mother’s hands pulling out the knots in his hair.
“Tito?” Olive carries a basket full of string beans.