Because one can dream.
I’ll probably be on my way home from work that day. Stuck somewhere on Miller Drive before the Palmetto Expressway. I’ll be sitting there in my little truck and ahead of me a row of cars as is the norm. A few carhorns will start blaring in front of me. “Great,” Ill complain to myself. “Now I have some idiot at the front of the line with car trouble or an accident or something.”
And then the car horns will become a little more ubiquitous. The blaring will be coming from behind me as well. And from the sides. And people heading the opposite way on Miller Drive will be honking too. Some of them will have their windows rolled down. Shaking their fists out the windows and screaming. At first it’ll seem like a combined fit of road rage. Like everyone being pissed at each other at the same time.
I’ll look over at the guy in the Mercedes next to me and he’ll be on his cellphone. Talking animatedly, using his hands to say whatever he cant get in edge wise vocally. Wait, did he just wipe tears from his eyes? And why does it seem the honking is getting louder? What the heck is going on?
The Eagles tune that I turned up to override all the honking just got interrupted. “We interrupt this program to bring you some breaking news…” But I wont be able to hear the breaking news. The car horns are too loud now. As if the entire city, as if every single person in every single car has just gone completely mad here in Miami.
People are starting to get out of their cars, right here, on Miller Drive, in rush hour traffic.
And then it hits me. I dont need a report to know what has just happened. My entire body is riddled with goosebumps. Tears are starting to build up. I open my car door, step out and look in both directions. It’s a madhouse. People are honking and screaming and jumping around. There’s a guy three or four cars back with his elbows resting on the roof of his car and his head in between them. It looks like he’s crying too.
The driver side door of the car in front of me opens slowly. A little old lady works to get out of her car. I make my way over to her, this little old lady that just a few minutes ago I was complaining about being behind of in traffic, and help her out. She looks up at me, tears flowing from a pair of eyes that mirror a gammut of emotions. I try to say something but nothing comes out. All I know is that I have to hug her. Embrace this new Abuelita of mine. Cry on her shoulders. Hold her as if Im holding every single person in my family. My deceased abuelos, my tias and tios that have passed on. My mother. My father.
She will start sobbing then, almost uncontrollably. I do everything in my power to not follow suit even though every single atom of my being wants that release. That freedom that crying brings.
“Ay, mijo,” she’ll say to me through baited breath. “Ay mijo….”
“No llore, Se?ora,” I’ll say, gingerly stroking her near blue hair. “Ya. No mas. Ni una lagrima mas….”
And that’s how I picture it. fidel castro is dead.