“Que Dios Te Bendiga”

My Abuela in the center with my Tia Juanita on the left and my Mother, Elena, on the right.

Reading Mr. Iyer’s words was more than reading a book. It was a journey. A journey to Cuba. A journey to myself. My parents were Cuban. My grandparents too. But I was raised American. The only Spanish I heard growing up was when my parents whispered secrets they didn’t want us to understand, or when we visited my grandparents. A little stuck with me. Enough.

It was a Tuesday when I picked my mother up from the airport. She lived in Atlanta, but now, suddenly, she was in Miami.

As we drove to my Abuela’s house, the conversation went like this:

Me: So, Mom, how long are you staying?
Mom: Through the weekend.
Me: Oh…
Mom: I know where you’re going. And you cannot go.
Me Thought: The only person I told was my sister. And she swore not to say a word.
Me: Mom, I’m going. I already bought my ticket. I’ll be fine.
Mom: Son, you don’t understand where you’re going! It’s dangerous! Just this past February, the Cubans shot down those Brothers to the Rescue planes in international airspace. These are the people who forced your father and me to leave.
Me: Mom, you and Dad left in 1955. By choice.
Mom: They could detain you. Influence you. You could become a communist!
Me: Mom, I’m not easily swayed. I’m stubborn. And I’m going with my eyes wide open.

Silence filled the car. It stayed that way until we reached Abuela’s house.

Mom: Mamá, ¿sabes dónde va tu nieto?
Me: Hola, Abuela!
Abuela: Hola, cariño. ¿Adónde vas?
Mom: Él va a Cuba!

Abuela said nothing. Just looked at me. She had those eyes—loving, deep, knowing. Then, finally, she spoke.

"Ya era hora de que alguien se fuera a casa."

It was the last thing my mother wanted to hear.

Mom: Mamá, ¿entiendes lo que dije? ¿Cómo puedes pensar que está bien que vaya a ese lugar?

Abuela didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and walked away. My mother followed, their voices hushed, urgent. I heard just enough.

Mom: What’s this package? You’ve been sending packages to Zusa?!

No answer. A silence I had never heard before. A silence that meant something.

Then Abuela came back. She held out a small wrapped box, the size of a shoebox. She placed it in my hands and gave me a slip of paper. A name. An address.

"Por favor, llévale esto a mi hermana Zusa. No la he visto en 30 años, pero cuando pueda le enviaré algo. No puedo llamarla para avisarle que vienes."

I nodded. "Sí, Abuela."

She reached up, took my face in her hands, and pulled me down. She kissed my forehead, soft and steady.

"Que Dios te bendiga."

That was it. My Abuela’s blessing. And my mother, sitting there, trying to understand what had just happened.