I didn’t remember that last one. It sounded vaguely aquatic. I responded: Moraima? WTF is Moraima?
He wrote back: Erik’s mom!
I laughed, realizing I was staring at a mom-joke that lay dormant for decades. Our shared adolescence had woken from a deep slumber. Each message that came through had the same jolting effect as a shot of espresso from La Carreta on Bird, where many Cuban fathers would convene for café, a cigarette, and a dramatic, hands-waving analysis of the state of our disunion. They were normal conversations that would easily be mistaken for vicious arguments anywhere north of Hialeah.