June 15, 1962
We brought the scent of violets in our hair.
The cafe con leche still dangling on our tongues.
Two suitcases filled with only clothes.
A wedding dress.
Baby clothes, baptismal outfit, a pink blanket.
My father wore his best suit.
My mother, her latest dress.
My sister and I in our Sunday best.
New shoes on our feet.
As if we were headed to a fiesta.
We left behind the wedding rings on the dresser
along with the other jewelry.
The same dresser mi abuelo the carpenter had made as a gift
from the same design he had made for Batista's bedroom.
The rings that were from the Jewelry store my other grandfather owned.
The store as well as the property on the beach which was taken
the year before.
We left abuelos behind as well later to be claimed by us.
We could only claim our own.
The elderly great-aunts did not want to leave.
They said this crazy business would end soon.
We left them our pets to take care and our dog Mancha
as she barked one last time as if to protest the Revolution.
We arrived with hope although we knew
we would never return to that same place
on Goss 183, Santo Suarez, la Habana.
I mean, it just occurred to me,
who packs a wedding dress
if they have plans to return?
My parents only remembered from that day on
what was left behind. Nothing that came after
June 15, 1962 was ever as good.
My sister and I
we only remember life
starting on that day.
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Author's Note
We left it behind us 50 years ago today.
This unpacks lives, history, and the intersection between with beautiful economy. The opening lines are a marvel.
Well done. Happily faved!
Good poem.
Strong story here, Didi.*
Love this poem. I haven't been excited about a new poem in a long while, not even my own.
The beginning is what did it for me and this too:
"...our dog Mancha/...barked one last time as if to protest the Revolution."
Well wrought, Didi. When I lived in Miami, so many Cubans had a look in their eyes, a sort of searching gaze tempered by a sort of final knowledge that loss was their milieu and life forever changed. *
I loved reading and thinking about the precious things packed and those left behind. The final two stanzas capture so much of the experience of reluctant immigrants and the new gulf that grows between the generations.
Didi, This is the most sensitive poem I've read about the Cuban exodus. It is a poem, a painting, a play, a film - it is utterly beautiful and deeply touching.
Thank you everyone.
Didi, so poignant, especially that last stanza.
Serendipity--I am reading MIAMI by Joan Didion, non-fiction she wrote about that city spanning 1960s-1980s. She has much to say about the Cuban-Anglo relationships there. Your poem provides the (needed) emotional anchor missing in her account. Peace*
This explains so many things, things people never stop to think about...
It should be required reading.
Thank you. I have been trying to explain it for the last decade in my poetry writing so I am glad it is finally understood.
Leaves me not knowing what to say. *
Great feeling, understated in its reavealing object-by-object, person-by-person, and the word abuelo, abuelos. I thought of "grandfather" yesterday in English, how we all have only two, yet I had one by family-related adoption, the one I met, the only one, at three. *
Has there ever been a family heritage told in such a pure way in only a scant few words? A brave family in a scary time. Even horrific weather disasters which wipe out whole communities can't compare to the devastation of a family which must sever its roots, take off to some strange land. This equates to so much more than the average idea of loss. Thank you, Didi, for bringing this story to light.
*