Hail Storm The last time my mother visited Cuba she found a car and driver to take her to the province of Las Villas, seven hours from Havana, and on the way it started to rain, and the driver, a young man kept telling her to relax, that this was the way it always rained in Cuba this time of year, and she kept telling him she wasn't a tourist, that she'd been born here, and the driver drove on in the wolf-mouth-dark of the road, insects and sleet rain crossing the head lights, and my mother couldn't relax, and when it started to hail, fists pounding on the hood of the automobile, she panicked, prayed to the point she spooked the young driver into stopping by the side of the road, if only until the hail storm stopped, if only until her heart settled and she began to recognize that what was pounding the car wasn't ice balls, but her memories falling back, her life welcoming her where she belongs.