Arts & Culture » Books

Cuba

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by Joanna Goddard, Bloomfield Hills

The stewardesses didn't seem to mind my father's requests for peanuts. I rolled my eyes.

At the hotel, he whistled Gershwin. "Shhh!" I snapped.

He cracked his knuckles. He snored. He made strangers take pictures of us with his camera. I counted the days until we'd fly home.

On the fifth morning, we went to the hotel pool. When I dove in, my head hit concrete.

As I regained consciousness, doctors were stitching my bloody face. Behind them, my father made funny faces to comfort me.

I had snapped at him for four days straight.

And he made funny faces.

 

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