Mara’s mother cast the ashes and Lelo vanished behind the Malecón. Then the ocean was the sky.
Mara’s uncle said, “You’re pale.”
“No, lost. Home disappeared into the sea. He bounded me to Cuba after I’d moved to Manhattan.”
The fat wind carried the ocean and Mara smelled her grandfather’s porch in Santa Fe Beach. There they’d sink their faces into his backyard mangos, they’d dance to Dizzy, Chano, Omara. There she and her cousins would run from Lelo as he chased them with the garden hose, watermelon popsicles splattering onto the pavement. Lelo had stayed in the wind.