My grandfather loved to fish.
He fished for tuna, yellowtail, red and black grouper. Sometimes he’d catch octopi, pound them on rocks, and hang them up to dry before bringing them to his home on Pepe Antonio Street. He lived only two houses from my family’s simple bungalow, the one my father supported on his meager wages from the fertilizer factory in Havana. Abuelo liked the solitutude, the peacefulness of fishing. “Gives me time to think,” he said.