Five
Alamar, Cuba
twenty-five years earlier
There was a fine mist that morning, a translucent veil pulled over the dark green fronds of palm trees. Mist shrouded the pink, yellow and orange blossoms of lush flower gardens (a shame these were hidden) and masked the concrete apartment buildings (a blessing to have their grey ugliness cloaked). Eurydice heaved an expansive yawn that stretched the skin on her cheeks. She was sleepy, in spite of the big cup of black coffee she had swallowed at dawn along with a thick wedge of buttered bread. How was it December already, almost the day of the Procesión de San Lázaro? Had she let so many days slip by without pausing to consult the grubby pages of the calendar tacked up in the kitchen?
By midmorning the mist had dissipated, evaporated under th
