¡Hola!

The Kindle version of my novel Last Seen in Havana is on sale for $3.99 on Amazon. ¡Feliz como una lombriz con esta sorpresa!

The Ashen Hour

At the ashen hour, that peculiar time of the day when night hasn’t fallen yet but you can’t see the edge of things, when the whole world seems to have gone underwater, my mother sometimes came to me. It wasn’t a dream, for I kept my eyes open the whole time, nor a childhood fantasy. It was a betwixt and between state, a rip in the fabric of reality, the glimpse of a mirage.

I remember one evening when the house felt quieter and emptier than usual. The blue glare of the television was the only light in the living room. I tiptoed outside and sat in the backyard under a mango tree while Mamina, my grandmother, busied herself in the kitchen. She was making congrí—black beans and rice, cooked together, with cumin and tiny pieces of bacon. I smelled fried chicken too (fried in lard, of course!) and my mouth watered.

I was getting hungry but soon forgot about the food. My mother approached quietly, her feet not quite touching the gravel path. I looked up and knew instantly that it was her, though I could not remember her face.

“¡Mamá!”

She knelt by my side and caressed my hair. A smell of roses engulfed me. I waited for her to explain those years of absence, to apologize and say that she loved me. But Mamina’s voice always broke the spell.

“Merceditas, where are you?”

My mother never came. The ghost of my nine-year-old self stayed under the tree, waiting for her.