I first made my appearance at 2:05 a.m., weighing 7 pounds, 10 ounces in a small clinic in Cuba under a torrential thunderstorm in the midst of summer. My mom was in labor for 4 hours compared to the 16 hours she endured with my brother. She teased that I was dying to get out and see the world already and that has not changed. I want to remember these tiny details, things only she would know, so I constantly interrogate. I ask her to tell me stories about my past and hers. Information that, along with her, would otherwise eventually turn into stardust. I want to record and remember. I may never become famous and no one would care about what time I was born or my weight on the world, but as long as I am here, these are tidbits of my life that will always connect me to her and myself. My father is gone, and I made the mistake of not asking him enough. I knew my father, but I did not know the man behind that title too well. I am not going to repeat history with the last connection to who I am.
Everyone has a story to tell. Just ask and write your own story.