Goodbye Angel

The house sat at the edge of Delmas 40B, tired and peeling, bones of its former beauty exposed under the Haitian sun. Faded ironwork curled like brittle flowers over the balcony, and the paint — once coral — had surrendered to dust and mildew. A cracked window let in the restless hum of Port-au-Prince traffic: tap-taps honking, vendors calling out plantain and sugarcane, the whine of moto engines weaving past crumbling sidewalks.

But inside, the only sound her wailing.

It had been hours.  her voice now rasped like animal pain, feral and guttural. Her body trembled from the force of it, from the heartbreak clawing its way out through her throat. Her cries bounced off the empty tile floors and faded walls, filled with nothing but air and old ghosts.

This was her aunt’s house.

The last physical remnant of her existence. And it, too, was slipping. Just like her body buried in a cemetery now too dangerous to visit. Gangs had claimed that part of town. No flowers. No goodbye.

For six years, she had imagined this moment. She told herself that when she returned, she would feel Roselene here. That something would rise from the walls and hug her the way her aunt never got to. That time would fold in on itself, and she’d feel her again. Laughing. Cooking. Braiding her hair. Praying in the doorway.

But the house was quiet. Cold. Gone.

The grief was not soft, not poetic. It was angry. Ugly. She screamed again, the sound hollow now. Why did they let this house fall apart? Why did the family move on like Roselene hadn’t raised them? Hadn’t fed them? Hadn’t made the house a place of joy?

She had been angry at her aunt for years for dying without waiting. For not holding on long enough to be taken care of, to be shown gratitude, to be hugged one last time. She remembered their last moment together: a conversation, a plan. No hug. No signal it was goodbye.

And then, nothing.

She created stories to survive the silence. Imagined Roselene as a guardian angel, a whisper in her ear. Sometimes she believed it. Sometimes she felt it — when she almost gave up, when the world was too sharp. But here in the house, all she felt was the absence. Heavy and endless.

She wept until there was no voice left, only breath.

She slept there — curled on the floor like a child, the dust clinging to her clothes and the ache in her chest settling like stone.

When she walked outside the next day, the yard was full. Family members who had quietly gathered stood with plastic chairs and thermoses of juice, saying nothing. They had heard. But instead of words, they handed her food — rice, fried goat, pikliz. And she took it, knowing Roselene had once made it best. She let herself pretend, if only for a bite, that something of her aunt still lived.

She knew this trip was goodbye — not just to Roselene, but to the rest of them. The aunts, the uncles, the land. You never know if you'll get to return when you’re from Haiti. Even if your body makes it back, sometimes the place doesn’t.

It wasn’t just Roselene who had disappeared. It was the culture. The language. The smell of spices in the courtyard. Future generations might never speak Creole, might never know the joy of Haiti beyond stories. And others, like Roselene, might vanish without graves, without witnesses, without memory.

As good as Roselene was — she disappeared.

And now, she had to find a way to keep what was left from completely fading.