December 4, 2013
I wrote it and all but it's pretty good.
My mother was conceived in what would ever be known as the Massacre River. The sharp smell of blood has followed her since.
The ugly details are trapped between the fragments of our family history. We are secrets ourselves.
I had pictured the river as a wide, yawning and bloody beast, but where we stood, the river flowed weakly. The waters did not run deep. It was just a border between two geographies of grief.
“We are keepers of secrets. We are secrets ourselves. We try to protect each other from the geography of so much sorrow. I don't know that we succeed.”Sweaty! Sticky! Airless! Humid! Ayiti exudes uncomfortably clammy adjectives – though one senses no single word could ever adequately describe the insufferable sultriness of a typical Haitian day without even a small electric fan to stir the fug.