In my dream I am there again. The lusty pulse beat of the city stirs
forgotten longings. Like an absentminded lover, I wonder why I stayed
away so long. Then something sinister worms its way into my
consciousness. My heart races, pounding faster and faster, until my
dream ends like all the others.
I see the flames, feel the heat, hear the screams. Some are mine.
I wake up gasping, drenched in perspiration, my adrenaline-charged body
alert to danger. From where? What unfamiliar room is this? Where am I?
The smell of smoke lingers as it all rushes back in a vivid explosion of
memory.
No matter where I go, I feel Miami's magnetic pull and mystical
intrigue, even in my dreams.
That explains my father's obsession with Veradero. The same siren song
that haunts me inexorably drew him back to the place of his birth, to
Cuba and his execution on San Juan Hill at the hands of Fidel Castro.
Others called my father a hero, a martyr, a patriot. My mother never
forgave him, but in this room, in this bed, tonight, I do. He is always
with me. Estamos juntos." --excerpted from book
