Dreams never die all at once. They die in pieces, floating a little farther and farther away each day. So there’s no longer an island before you, no longer Havana, the crash of waves along the Malecón vanishing, until the speck disappears completely. All you once clutched to your breast and held so deeply in your heart ceases to exist, slipping through your fingers like the sand that once lay beneath your feet. And you are alone. And in that moment, you have a choice— You can either succumb to the deep dark, cast yourself unto the sea, the weight of all you have lost simply too great and
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