The Road Home

Just like that, with the click of a button, after about 30 years living in a quaint neighborhood called The Roads, my home’s pictures roam somewhere in the For Sale section of cyberspace. This is my home for almost two decades, where I danced carelessly with loved ones on the unfinished, roofless shed of the back of my house, adorned with string patio lights and New Year decorations to welcome Y2K, come what may. 

This old beauty was built in 1919; word of mouth says Desi Arnaz owned a now pink home on my street, an old concrete Mediterranean style, two story house, with inviting arches just like mine. I wonder if the guy that built my home ever met Desi. I don’t know much about this home’s history, when I tried to dig information on my property by visiting The City of Miami building department I was told all plans dating that far burned during a fire. What little I know came from the person that sold us the house, he said the first owner was an electrician and it showed, he equipped the house with state of the art wrought iron ceiling lamps and rustic chandeliers. All of what was still here when my ex-husband and I moved in; together with peeling cloth covered wires that surprisingly still worked but had to be replaced in order to be up to code. 

I often try to imagine how the neighborhood must have looked like back then. Years ago when my now teen daughter was a toddler I met one of the neighbors during our daily walks. From a far I saw a lady leaning on the fence of a corner home, she gave me a warm smile while she waved and we chatted a bit. Well, more like she asked me questions, like, where do you live, what is your baby’s name and so forth. Then it came my turn and I asked her how long she lived here with the curiosity of a teenager. She had been living in that same house with purple bougainvillea for decades. She reminisced of a time when her neighbors would leave their doors open and spend the day switching from house to house in between their daily chores, sharing recipes, coffee and stories. What a contrast I thought from now, with our high gates, bolted doors, alarms and camera systems. Most of her neighbors moved to retirement homes or simply had passed away by then. She seemed eager to paint a picture of a bygone era, she was good at it cause I could almost hear the noise of children playing on the streets, smell the seasoning of rice and beans with pork cooking in her kitchen, while a neighbor would walk into her house to share some tres leches dessert she made, no knock on the door required. 

I will miss these roads where my house sits, where my wonderful daughter grew inch by inch from when she was inside of me, this house that saw me heartbroken, fall out of love and back in love again. My house with all its wonderful architecture and secret spots, whoever built it showed the excitement by the amount of details found in every corner. The iron railings, detailed balconies, and its many wood frame windows back when air conditioning was not common. I’m sure he took his time to pick its glass door knobs, pine wood floors and honey comb tile that graces the bathrooms. All the best an up and coming entrepreneur could afford at the time, showing it off to family coming by train from up north the way Flagler envisioned it. Details of the owner’s life I’ll never know but I can assure you he was a visionary, foreseeing what greatness Miami had to offer and what it would become. Wherever his soul is I’m sure he misses these roads as much as I will.

Memories of a Mango Tree

As summer approached, so did the loud thumps of mangos falling daily in my backyard. People said the area was a mango farm; my whole neighborhood bursted with them. I was the proud friend of a tall, thick mango tree that guarded my home like only a titan could. Every year it gave amazing plump and juicy mangos, so sweet they made my belt expand by a notch during the summer months. During season so many dropped it was hard to even attempt to freeze them all, although my mother and I tried, cutting and storing them one by one, scrubbing our nails to get the staining orange dye out. When my mom would visit during  mango season, she would run out early mornings to get them faster than the wild raccoons and squirrels. One time a huge mango fell right on top of her head, almost giving her a concussion, but it didn’t matter to her. Next time she was on a mission, sporting a construction hard hat. If you know us, you know nothing came between us and our mangos.

I can tell you stories about and around the tree. Like when I came from work one day to find all my mangos gone. The tree was full of them in the morning, ready to drop them one after another. It was about the time they would change color from green to orange, which practically threw me into daily anxiety, drooling to see them ripe once and for all. Mango thieves were a Miami thing, and I learned the hard way. How painful to see the fruit pulled from the branches before their time, but the tree had the last word and hid a few for us to enjoy. Yet another troublemaking thief that took them from us was hurricane Irma. Sadly she took away part of the tree, too, sending it into shock, thus leaving us without mangos for the following season.

If that tree could have talked, it would have told you about my daughter building a treehouse with her dad, or when its shade blessed the union of my sister and brother in law during their garden wedding. It stood tall with Brickell and Downtown Miami as a backdrop, with its many modern towers and glass windows standing in contrast to the tree’s connection to nature and our past. That tree witnessed the landscape of the city constantly expanding as its own branches reached high, aiming for the clouds. How many stories it might have watched unfold. The swishing of its leaves when I asked for sweet gossip was more like a hush sound, if you ask me. The only way I could  share its secrets was by sharing its bounty. Each season I would post, “The mango lady is back!” People sent me texts, Facebook posts, calls for a bag or two. I didn’t mind—in fact I loved it! Sharing its deliciousness became a treat as sweet as the fruit itself.

In my backyard, only this tree provided shade on a hot and humid Miami day. I often sat under it while I meditated, smelling its flavor and daydreaming of the pigments of green, bright orange and red that dressed the fruit it bestowed upon us.

That's All

What a lovely Haitian accent, I thought as the technician tried to find my vein. Have you had anything to drink today? She asked. To drink? It’s a little early for happy hour I thought. You mean water? I replied. Yes, she said and added, I’m having a hard time finding your vein. Oh, I had a bit of coconut flavored water, I said. She didn’t reply. Truth is I’m very bad at drinking water. I try to be healthy, a vegan wanna be, but I don’t exercise and I hate drinking water. Coconut flavored infused water didn't seem to impress her. When I received the news, I asked my doctor if this was a result of too much sugar in my diet. I guess she noticed the bit of guilt in my tone and reassured me it’s not my fault. She said, one in every 8 women are diagnosed with cancer, you have done nothing wrong. But I can’t help it, the catholic in me wants to beat on my chest and say, "por mi culpa, por mi culpa por mi gran culpa, I have sinned through my own fault", as I repeated Sundays at church when I was little.

So now I lay face down with my breast hanging down in front of a machine ready to swallow me whole. The kind that has been declared demonic by some. And maybe they are correct or else why would there be so many red warning signs at the door. Caution! Danger! This sophisticated machine that claims would help cure me could also harm me. The technician didn’t mention anything about that. Why would she, we have all sorts of machines now everywhere, placed and designed for our “own good”, even at airports, no disclaimers needed here I guess.

She gives me ear plugs as I lay nervously. The last thing I’ll put on you are the headphones, it will get loud, she says. She hooks me to the IV and off she rolls me inside this monster machine, headphones on and a little pump inside my fist in case of an emergency, all in place.

She was right about her only disclaimer, it was loud in there. But I could hear at times the music through the headphones. 80's songs were playing, fits me perfect since I am a proud 80's girl. In between the loud noises that sounded as if I was trapped in the belly of a moving plane I heard Phil’s voice. “I could leave but I won't go. It'd be easier I know. I can't feel a thing from my head down to my toes.” It made me laugh, it was exactly how I felt. Inside the monster who was ingesting me by loud pieces Phil was with me, as he did so many times when I was a teen. And so I got distracted seeing my life in chapters like a book, realizing how much I want to create more chapters and more stories to tell, even the ones I rather not talk about, like this one. Cause there is no more to life but our stories, that’s all.