December Warmth.
It was mid-December, but the island’s clear sky resembled spring mornings. The sun still shone as bright as in the summer months, and its heat suffocated us with the same intensity. The children were so used to the weather that the sweat falling from their hairlines seemed not a problem as they ran and jumped across the plaza. They reminded me of my own child, although I knew that now he would be much taller than them and look more like his father than the little boy I knew. I pictured him running decades ago, on one hot afternoon like this one. He conjugated Spanish verbs awkwardly as he yelled, and got his ironed white shirt and khaki capris dirt with sweat and dust—for which I later scolded him. He ran towards the terrace of the café where I sat, smiling excitedly while handing me a guava he had reached from an old tree. I taught him how to peel it and he ran back to his friends with the sweet fruit’s juice dripping from his lips. I laughed and ate the rest of the fruit while finishing my iced agüepanela and looking at them play. From my seat, I could listen to the radio news coming from the inside of the café or the salsa songs that played every now and then. I also pretended not to listen to the gossiping ladies sitting next to me, enjoyed the view of my old and colorful neighborhood under the golden rays, and embraced the cold touch of the evening breeze against my cheeks. While my boy chased his friends, I received a kiss in each cheek from the neighbors that passed by and savored the smell of pastries coming from the café. Everything was all right on that afternoon years ago when my boy was still mine and not a son of the exodus. Neighbors were gentler back then, too, when we did not worry about the ones who left or feared the ones who stayed. The children that played with my boy were all grown, too, and those who escaped their fate in the island were scattered across the world. On this December afternoon, I could not afford my usual cup of agüepanela but only a glass of water and children sat on the curb playing quietly. Passerbys still greeted me with a kiss on each cheek but their stares were void of familiarity, and the radio on the cafe played only the unrestricted music stations. It had been this way for years, but a strange silhouette walking from the narrow streets finally broke the monotony of our neighborhood. It belonged to a tall and robust man wearing a white guayabera with long khakis and fancy black shoes. He smiled from ear to ear as he crossed the plaza and approached my table, completely ignoring the startled stares from both children and neighbors. It was still hot, but I found myself shaking and standing frozen as I inspected his face. His familiar thick voice and still fluent Spanish warmed my chest, and as he held my hands to get me on my feet, he kissed my cheeks with a much softer and warmer effect than my neighbor's greeting. I grabbed his cheeks and signaled the Holy Cross across his thirty-year-old face, still unable to believe that my boy—my little boy with dirty clothes and lips full of guava—had come home after so long. Nothing had been all right since the old afternoon with agüepanela and salsa music, and nothing in the island had changed now, but with my boy—my grown man—back home, the island’s heat and neighbor 's sorrows did not matter anymore.
Guayabera: men's shirt typically worn in hot, Latin American countries ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guayabera ).
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