Abuela's Porch, Havana

“Abuela's porch in Vedado. The fan does nothing but push the heat around. Dominos crack on the folding table — tío Miguel slapping them down like punctuation. Abuela makes café cubano in the moka pot, serves it in those tiny cups that burn your fingers. She hums boleros while she moves. The street below arguing about baseball, always baseball. The Malecón salt breeze finds you sometimes. Plaster peeling off the columns. Everything fading but nothing gone.”