Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

Writing is not a profession anyone in my family respects or understands—my salary has too few zeros, my schedule is too erratic, the prestige of my career choices not nearly enough. They view it as an eccentric hobby, an anecdote trotted out at parties, a source of bemusement rather than something that—mostly—pays the bills.

I stop in my tracks. Two men lie facedown on the ground in front of us less than one hundred feet away, blood pooling beneath their bodies, their lifeless eyes staring back at me. How can I not look? Relief fills me—swift and decisive— It isn’t them.

There comes a point when you have to decide if it’s worth it, if the abuses are enough to make you want to leave, if they outweigh those few moments when you know true pleasure.”