Havana, Cuba

Sitting at my kitchen table with a glass of ginger tea (no cafecito for once), trying to fight off this pollen, my mind drifts to Cuba.

With so much happening in the world, watching Cuba suffer more deeply with each passing day weighs heavily on my heart.

It’s a place my family fled...one they were never able to return to.

I’ve always dreamed of visiting Cuba with my grandmother, walking beside her, holding her hand as she showed me the streets that raised her.

She passed, and we never made it.

I dreamed of going with my father too—but he passed, and we never made it.

I did have the chance to visit in 2019, two years before my father died. Although we didn’t get to experience it together, I was able to bring a piece of it back to him, to share the sights, the sounds, the feeling of his beloved homeland.

Can you imagine not being able to go back home?

As a New Yorker, born and raised, I find myself flying back to NYC just to feel that sense of home.

It’s my safe place, my reset.

There’s something about the noise, the traffic, the constant motion, the baconeggandcheese (yes, all one word), and most of all—the people.

People from all over the world, brave enough to leave everything they’ve known in search of something more.

This piece is for them.

For those who had no choice but to leave.

For those who carry home in memory instead of in reach.

For those who chose the sea.