Bleach water in my hair,
sounds of roosters
hot, sticky.
That feeling of being on the frontier,
but in a cool, ceramic tile oasis
It is morning #1: back in Haiti.
And this, from my journal close to two years ago. Ted had encouraged me to be bold and to try to write down some poetry. I reflected on experiences with a neighborhood boy:
Instead of hope,
money.
Instead of a smile, or kinship
a "solution" offered.
I can't talk; I can't give you more.
Who am I? And what are we?
I guess, we are actually the same.
Tied by a line.
You are my brother; that is all.
We are family.
Kinship, explored.
Expounded.
Brought forth
into it's actual meaning.
So this is who we are, who I am.
Live, therefore.
Offer the smile,
Be brave.
Live in the light - whole,
not afraid.
When I first met Tanis, he asked me for a bike. Then he asked me to buy him a ball, a new phone, pay his school fees. I couldn't meet all of his needs, nor did I feel it was my place to do so. But he came by ever so often - knocked on the gate. And we would chat in the driveway. I know he has it rough. And I often struggled with what to do - what could I offer him? Besides a peanut butter sandwich, and some time? The question didn't always have to be as complicated as I made it to be. I think that simply chatting with him at times was the answer.
So, he came by and we would 'shoot the breeze.' The one neighbor we actually chatted with regularly over our first several months in Haiti.
