“How’s Gary?” my masseuse Charlie inquired upon greeting me yesterday. “Gary?” I asked, searching my brain. I was unable to think of a single Gary in my social circle. Charlie smiled as he watched me scramble to respond before I realized he was referring to Gary MacEoin from the book. He had been reading Lost and Found in Cuba and Gary, so dear to me when he was alive, had become real to Charlie.

And that is the miracle of writing— and the magic of reading—that marks left on blank white pages could do their symbolic work and bridge from the private world of my Cuba experience to the imagination of a reader. What an amazing process! As Charlie worked shiatsu magic on my sore muscles with his strong hands and socked feet, he recalled with delight details of Gary’s wisdom and our quirky encounters. The mirror of Charlie’s recollections coaxed memories of Gary back to the surface of my consciousness where I savored them again, completing the circle between reader and writer.

After our time together in Cuba, Gary and I kept in touch by email, mostly about writing. I never made it to one of his Saturday night open houses in San Antonio. He died in 2003 at the age of 94. On a steamy day in August, friends of Gary gathered in locations around the country to celebrate his extraordinary life. Those of us unable to attend one of the organized events were advised to honor him in personal ways. I claimed my MFA in writing from Goucher College that day and thought of Gary as the diploma was placed in my hand.