Tile, by Enma Leyva

And they came to our rescue— they came, the World: too late. My grandmother sat amongst the ruins, holding that small, salvaged piece of tile from her house— the one and only house tile. Hundreds of tiles broken as the Americans came, only to see a broken country not my grandmother’s broken dreams. This was to be my house, my home. Now these walls: Wilma’s rubble. The Americans never saw my grandmother’s tears: they were too busy weighing our worth. They never saw her broken dreams: all they saw were hundreds of tiny tile pieces. *** Born in Cuba, Enma Leyva grew up in South Florida. She teaches English in the…

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Radio talk, Ms. May, and Hiatus

On The Whimsical Project, May was all about art, literature, and Haiti. I hope that you enjoyed the stories and poems by Katia D. Ulysse, Tammy L. Tillotson, Patricia Biela, and France-Luce Benson, and that you were also delighted by the art of Pascale Doxy. Ms.May, where have you gone? I was going to say, “Stay tuned in June!” but turns out I’m going on a hiatus. I want to focus on my new novel this summer. I’m off Facebook and off TWP. I’m not even answering emails. Completely off the grid! I’ll be on the radio tomorrow, though. If you happen to speak Haitian Creole, talk-show host Eustache Fleurant…

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