Cuba starts to warm up in February.
The average temperature hovers around twenty degrees, the plains are heavy with moisture, and the muddy earth should be in prime sowing season for the year—yet right now, not a single soul can be seen across the fields.
In the abandoned farmland, the weeds this year are especially thick, growing an inch a day; by now they're about waist-high, swaying slightly in the monsoon wind, their bleak rustling sounding like they're lamenting something.
Buried among those wild patches of overgrown grass are bones of who-knows-who, whose husband.
The spent shells scattered all over the ground have already rusted, crushed over and over by passing wheels, pressed deep into the soil—no one is ever going to remember them.
Yuri wiped the condensation off his face, looking exhausted; he was already starting to miss the coffee his wife brewed back home.
Right now, even the Cuban cigar in his hand can't get his spirits up.
