I remember getting dressed up on Sunday mornings, fru fru dresses, fru fru socks, hair ribbons, all
items reserved only for church.
I remember protesting about itchy clothes, painful clip-on earrings, and the hoity-toitiness of fancy
attire.
I remember riding up the hill in my father’s crowded car to Sunday school. Crowded because my
father often picked up believers heading to our church and offered them a ride.
I remember walking and running down that same hill a few hours later with teachers and friends.
I remember father-daughter days, fritay nights on Friday nights and, during thunderstorms, sipping
the heavily spiced, lusciously thick, comforting deliciousness that is Haitian hot chocolate.
I remember jumping rope, hopscotch, and hide-and-go-seek.
I remember dominoes, mancala, and osselets–jacks played with the knuckle bones of sheep and
goats. I wasn’t very good.
I remember gathering around the television on Sunday afternoons and watching our favorite
situation comedy.
I remember my mom listening to her radio soaps while sewing or braiding our hair.
I remember summers, shaved ice, cheese balls, staying up late.
I remember summer homework, imposed on us by our imposing mother.
I remember reading and re-reading storybooks we got from school, getting lost in the fantastical
tales of Cendrillon, Le Petit Chaperon Rouge, and fables like Le Corbeau et le Renard.
I remember my father praying over us, laughing with us, singing to us, telling us bedtime stories,
recounting the funny tales of the mischievous Ti Malis.
I remember going to Jacmel where my father’s from with our city friends and family.
I remember my palpitating heart as I feared tripping and sliding down the staggering country
mountains–the trepidations of a sheltered city girl.
I remember being up there–the fresh air, milk from the cow, a relaxed family.
I remember being puzzled while watching my city-born cousins transform into ruralists as they
ran up and down mountains, ventured the hills on their own, and freely and happily frolicked in
the river.
I remember, though happy there in the mountains, feeling like an outsider wondering why I was
different from my cousins.
I remember the fear that hovered in the background of a carefree childhood. Threats of violence
led to cancelled classes, curfews, worrying about my dad when he was out.
I remember a country perpetually on the verge of a coup, at the mercy of violent men.
I remember in those moments of school closures and curfews, comfort wasn’t found in the abandon
of children’s games nor in Ti Malis–but in the stillness.
I remember that December when Grandmaman died, U-shaped Christmas garlands adorned our
living room walls, gifts clustered around a tree, and in the foreground, a somber family, an
anguished mother.
I remember, three months later, saying goodbye to it all.
I remember waking up early on March 31. Lots of people were there. Bidding farewell. Denise
made the best meatballs I’ve had until this day.
I remember she made a lot. We took some with us on the plane–you could do that in the 90s.
I remember being at the airport. Sitting in my fru fru wear, hours passed, friends said goodbye,
loved ones cried.
I didn’t cry.
I remember that bittersweet day, the brouhaha of it all kept my spirits up.
I remember the gradual dwindle of loved ones, until it was my mom, my sister and me striding
toward that plane.
I remember my resolute mother, marching away from her marriage, my sister and me–powerless
as we trailed away from comfort, familiarity, and daddy-daughter Fridays.
I remember the three of us, walking toward uncertainty, the unknown, toward hope.
I remember turning around and looking back. In the blur of the fast-moving crowd stood my dad,
handkerchief in hand, seemingly unaware of the frenzy around him as he wiped tears from his
eyes.
I remember it struck me then, the uncertainty of it all.
I remember, as I was being led away by my mother, seeing in my mind’s eye children skipping
rope, Sunday school games, a nurturing dad that made me laugh.
I remember at 10 years old, I didn't know that I would return, see loved ones again. Hug my dad
again.
I remember so, I cried.
