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…