Odilia Rivera Santos
My mother who always had a special kind of Caribbean Black stoicism taught me to work through any situation. And although my first impulse was to sit in a coffee shop and stare at a nonexistent moon, I rallied around like a trooper and took the train.
I let it do what it does -- be late, be slow, jostle my body against another's -- while a tourist who did not look urban stared at me. I haven't a clue why my activities and demeanor would be more entertaining than a book. I was typing some poems on my Mac, which has seen better days because it has taken trips to the sidewalk and wood floor of my apartment.
If I were the tourist, I would read a book or magazine and leave the locals alone.
Why read me?
But it is not for me to judge and no harm done. She was a blip on the geologic radar.
Today is a day made for philosophers, poets and wood nymphs. I am here in expectation of wonderful enchantments. I am here across the street from that abandoned structure, which brings Old Havana to mind with its flaked gray paint accentuated by a slip of pink through a window.
I am here trying to make a painting with my eye and words of which I could spare a few.
Today is the kind of day for introspection and wonderment.
Even through my boots, my toes are feeling the cool of the first rough licks of winter.
Here, on this corner, now inhabited by tourists and bad pastry, I imagine Henry Miller must have strolled hand-in-hand with June and Anais.
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