My Family After Tragedy

I am not finished with my stories. Even so, I wanted to make one thing clear: a great deal of care and effort has gone into this work. I write first for my own enjoyment, but that does not mean it is taken lightly. When I complete a story, I share it on my blog following a principle my mother taught me: let your friends play with your toys . In that spirit, what I share is offered as a gift. The Anomaly , as you may have noticed, is a work of fiction, but it moves in rhythm with real history and real human suffering. For that reason, I want any reader who finds it to know that it is written with respect—for the subject, and for them. Yes, I use modern tools, including AI, ethically and sparingly, in the limited way I understand the world. They help me polish the work, not replace it. I love this work. It carries a distilled human feeling that resists easy explanation. When I love something, loyalty follows—and that loyalty shapes how carefully I hold it, revise it, and share it. Thi...

Oh—Lacrima, Lacrima mia, Would you be my friend? Must I contend—my constant intent, to carry you forever? Where should I treasure your remains: my hands, my face? Oh—Lacrima, Lacrima mia, You are already my friend.

Recently I have been assisting a very dear person to me. The name will remain anonymous, because it is not for me to disclose. But believe me, I would lay my life down if it were to come to that. These recent events have made me look deep inside; it is inevitable. I lost my wife to cancer: Glioblastoma Multiforme, or GBM for short. There is no cure for this affliction. I took care of her until her last breath. She faced her predicament with bravery and gallantry. She wanted to be in the "5%," the ones who beat the odds. But life does not work like that. I stopped working, and for 16 months we fought together for her life. When it was evident she was losing, she told me: "No hospice, no hospital." She died with no bedsores, a testament to her care. At the moment before she crossed, I asked my daughters to join me in a ritual. Our younger daughter played her clarinet, and our older daughter held her hand. We were telling her she was not alone. In my wife's will, t...

  To my daughters, I tried to be her, and I could not. I tried to be their buddy, and I could not. Then I understood: I am Dad. That is my role, my strength, and my gift. Now, it is recorded forever, here.

My wife passed away in June 2021. Before she did, she told me to write. Somehow, I believe that from the shadows she still urges me on. I work during the day, and with quiet anticipation wait for the moment I can slip back into the world I am creating. I have always enjoyed writing stories about my family—it mattered deeply to me—but the series that became The Anomaly has bewitched me in a different way. Perhaps it is because every character, every moment, feels layered with humanity. They move me. I can see them; I can meet them. When I began writing The Last Mission of K-88 Grom , I stepped outside. It was raining, six degrees Celsius, with a gentle wind sharp enough to make me shiver. For a moment, I wanted to be in their skin—to draw from my own humanity and carry it back into the story. To all the readers around the world who visit these pages, thank you. Here are the most popular posts. Postscript I hope  The Man Under the Uniform  and  The Last Mission of K-88 Gr...

My Turning Point The public hearings at the University of Havana during the so-called “Deepening Process” were some of the darkest days in our history. At the Faculty of Chemistry, classes stopped entirely; nothing was taught, nothing was learned. Attendance at the hearings was mandatory, and each day felt like walking into a tribunal rather than a university. Many students were expelled. Charlie was not the only one. I remember a young woman—I can’t recall her name—who was cast out simply for wearing a crucifix. It had been a gift from her godmother. When the commission demanded she take it off, she refused. The leader pointed at the door, and instantly a chorus began: “Out, out, out!” Her classmates followed her to the street, chanting in what was called a “repudiation act.” It was horrible to watch. These acts were not spontaneous. They were an intimidation tactic perfected by the government. They could—and sometimes did—turn violent. The year before, in 1980, lives had already be...