The House That Built Me

The sweet perfume of diesel fuel hung heavy in the air … so heavy I could almost taste it. The silence of the morning as I stood on the second-floor balcony of a remodeled casa particular — a modern-day Cuban version of a Bed and Breakfast — was broken only by the call of “Panadero!” as the bread man peddled his wares along the nearly-deserted street. It’s a sound that touched my heart as, for the first time in my life, the story my mom told of my dad’s early days as a panadero in Habana unfolded before my eyes. It’s just one of dozens of stories she has shared with me in the 62 years since we left the island nation. For ten days in April of 2016, I experienced those stories in person. Past and present merged as I found myself inside a tunnel where time stood still. My 10-day journey — only 90 miles from home — took me to the place I’d been searching for all my life. I’ve traversed the world to find myself, not realizing that what I was seeking was a 25-minute wheels-up-to-wheels-down trip from home. In reality, however, it was even closer than that. <blockquote> I thought if I could touch this place or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing — Miranda Lambert. </blockquote> <h1>Let’s Go To Cuba</h1> It’s a trip I never thought I would make … at least not while my parents were alive. I was half right. In 1961, my folks risked everything they had to come to the United States, seeking a better life for themselves and me. I always felt that going back to the island would be a slap in the face. <a href="https://medium.com/mystic-minds/the-house-that-built-me-be5482cc6d5b">Read More</a>