R. M. Romero - The Ghosts of Rose Hill

They had to be fierce and stubborn to survive. My great-grandmothers (may their memories be a blessing) mastered the art of escape seven generations before my mother. They fled the pyres (the flames fueled by hatred) devouring the street corners, synagogues, cemeteries of Spain, crossing the ocean with their faith and Shabbat candlesticks tucked under their skirts. I wonder if they understood their ancestors would leave Cuba with its sunset-colored buildings and blue skies as soft as whispers the same way. When Castro (and his communists) rose to power, he waved his cigar like a magic wand. Whenever he did, poets and gossips, friends and neighbors disappeared, taken by men who prowled through the night.

Mom understood what happened to those who vanished, how their bones were planted in fields of rice and sugarcane. Not wanting to be among them (and knowing one day she might be) Mom fled her island, letting the water carry her and her little fishing boat away to a new life with nothing but the dress she wore to her name. Like a queen of Narnia who couldnt go back through the wardrobe, Mom knows shell never return to Cuba again. Shell be in exile forever. My parents decide theyll be sending me to live with my aunt ofie in Prague the golden city of a hundred towers and a thousand stories for the summer. They think if Im away from Miami (and all its distractions) Ill study more seriously for the college admissions exams looming in my future.

The bargain is this: in the fall, I must earn 1300 (or above) on the SAT. Mom and Dad see that score as a silver key; it will grant me access to the best colleges, the largest scholarships, the brightest future. But if my score is any lower, there will be no more music lessons or weekend outings until it improves. At first, my father raged like a September storm at the idea of banishing me to the city he grew up in. He told my mother: ofie lives her lifeon top of bones!The communists are gone,but what they did withtheir tanks,their lies and laws,their secret policecant be erased.I havent been backin almost thirty years.Ill never go back again. Mom said: You and Ididnt survivedictators of flesh and bloodso we could livein fear of ghosts.And youre luckyyour daughter can visitthe place you were bornand be safe. She won the argument by virtue of being right. (She usually does.) June, July, and August lie ahead, three months without my friends or my violin.

Im being separated from everyone, everything, supposedly leading me down the wrong path in life. I tell myself: my friendships will survive a single summer away. Sarah, Martina, and I can still talk every day. But how will I live without my music?

Chapter Three

The night before I leave, I meet Sarah and Martina at the bus stop to say goodbye. Their parents send them to the New World School of the Arts, where they study cello, opera, how to transform strings of notes on a page into tales about: swan girls, queens of night, and wolves with wild intentions. I begged Mom and Dad to let me attend the same high school.

I wanted nothing more than to study music, play violin, be with my friends. But they refused. Music, my parents said, wont put food on the table. Music, they said, wont give me the kind of life they so desperately want for me. They believe we can hold safety and security in our hands, building it one degree, one car, one house at a time. My friends and I flee the packs of tourists drinking up the neon glow of Ocean Drive and race down to the beach. My friends and I flee the packs of tourists drinking up the neon glow of Ocean Drive and race down to the beach.

But by the time we reach the water, Im already outside their conversation. Sarah and Martina will spend their sixteenth summers here in Miami Beach, chasing songs and kisses, making memories steeped in wondrous colors. But I wont share any of their adventures. Ill only see them captured in pictures and videos, with an ocean between us. I wade into the waves as my friends chatter away. (Again.)