Navidad

Once again it is time to prepare for Christmas. I help my mother to write cards and wrap little parcels for my nieces and nephews. I know she wonders if this year dad will join us, too. Every year he promises to meet us in Caraballo, and every year we are disappointed. My siblings do not mind, they are still small; even I rarely remember him now. Only mother finds it hard to let go. absent-mindedly she stares out of the window while I pack our bags for our journey to Caraballo, where all the family will meet at grandmother´s house.

Caraballo is only some 60 km to the east from our home in La Habana, still the journey is long by public transport and a real adventure for us children who rarely get on a bus ride at all. It is somehow remote; a small village like so many others are, with a church in the centre and a park, with little traffic and friendly people who bid you good morning when you meet them and give you a smile or, on days not so good, at least a nod.

We do not meet very often, but every year for Christmas time, all the family travels to Caraballo, to spend a few days together. We children cherished these days, it was a time of fun and freedom and leisure. We roamed the meadows and the hills with the dogs, sometimes chased the cats or carried the little chickens around like our babies. Mother watched us with a smile, though her eyes would be sad and ever so often she would stare at the front gate for a while and I knew she was watching out for dad. But dad would never come, he was far away, at another place, with another family.

Then mama would go inside and help the women prepare the meal; a pig would be roasted and there would be potatoes and vegetables and lots of sweets as well.

At dusk, we children would sit down by the fire and chat and sing and play games. Grandmother would come sit beside us and tell stories of fairies and wonders of old.

After dinner, someone would bring their bongos and maracas, a guitar too, and there would be music and song, we would all laugh and dance and enjoy ourselves. Even mama would forget her sadness and join in the fun.

Our father never came. Maybe next year, mama used to say, but we kids knew better. And as long as we could travel to Caraballo once a year, as long as we could visit grandmother and all our nieces and nephews, Christmas would always be the best time of the year.