My father has been in Cuba for a week and I find myself missing him when I
eat the Sunbeam wheat low-calorie bread I bought for him to combat his
diabetes and made every morning toasted with a slice of honey turkey.
I am now sitting in his spot: corner of the dining room table overlooking
our large bay window toward the back of the house. He'd endlessly sit here working
on his mind-melting sodoku puzzles, beard hanging over the keyboard, or reading
El Pais. He would manage his way around his facebook page or marvel at
interviews of Ernesto Cardenal on youtube. This is where we sat and watched
Juan
de los Muertos. My father confided in me one afternoon, coming out of the
shower I helped him take so that his surgery wound would remain dry, that the
worst crime the Cuban government committed was to deprive Cubans access to the
internet.
I miss the old man at lunch time when we sat together and I'd serve him his
brown rice with fish and salad with spinach. Silvia Sarasua would be so happy
to know I am eating spinach, he would say. I'd serve him water and sugar-free
soda. Then I would eat the same thing. He'd want dessert and I would serve him Jell-o. I miss helping him back to his bedroom at night and watching
the entire NBA playoffs right to the very last game of the Heat-Thunder series.
Shit, I even miss preparing the insulin needle with 25 units in the morning. He
was down to needing only 15 units before he left. I miss the blood sugar tests
with the Walgreens machine. Cheering together when he registered - scored -
below 140. We were conquering diabetes and high blood sugar and the unhealing
and unholy forces which attacked his foot and required the amputation of the
little toe. We were together.
Damn this fucking sea waving between the old man and me.
