The Last Goodbye

Saying goodbye can often be bittersweet. But when you say goodbye for what you know to be the last time, it’s on a whole new different level. Especially when you’re eight.

In August of 1966, my family, which included my mom, dad, and two brothers, left Cuba. Forever. We were escaping communism and the horrors that that way of life would entail.

While leaving was the best possible thing to do for our safety and well-being, our hearts cried. They would cry for months to come as we adjusted to life in a totally different culture: America.

As an adult, I can still feel the sadness of leaving my beloved grandmother behind so many years ago. I will never forget sitting in the back seat of the car on the night we left, turned around, and looking out the back window as she waved farewell, her face sad, her eyes wet.

Or maybe that was just my reflection.

It has been 54 years since I left my country and family behind. And while we’ve made a wonderful life here—one of which I’m proud and grateful—there’s a little corner of my heart that still belongs on another piece of land. One that wishes that that final goodbye had never happened, and that my grandmother would have seen me grow up.

Saying goodbye can often be bittersweet. And though I’ve turned that long-ago goodbye into sweets, sometimes a little bitterness still remains.