Voices

Your voice is carried on the wind,

The voice of love,
 I hear it,
 Pleading!

"Come to me,
 Come to me,
 Come!"

The breeze against my cheek,

Softly,
"Come!"

Gently,
"Come",

"Yes, I shall!"

 

 

My mother was not without friends. Most of her Latino friends were from Cuba. My god parents and those of my two sisters were immigrants from Cuba. There was a very small community of Spanish speaking peoples and they did hold together very well. Many of my early memories were of the Tuero family of cigar manufacturing fame in Canada. I remember visiting their cigar factory and spending many summer days at their cottage in the Muskokas, north of Toronto. To get there we traveled the longest street, perhaps in all of North America. It is still there; its name is Young Street. There was a ditty that we as children sang, “You can’t get to heaven on a Young street car, for a Young street car can’t go that far”.