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 avocado and sugar cane, the whine of moto engines weaving past crumbling sidewalks that once upon a time was home to papaya tress.

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 wasn’t her aunt’s house.

This wasn’t the famous Lakou Baleine that once smelled like fresh meals and sweat, submerge in the sound of the needles passing through the candle mold where we aunt use to stand in front of two basin full of water, pulling fresh candles out, ready to be pack and sold in bulk to the market. This did not sound like her cousin’s laughter, her own feet gallopinig around, helping her cousin in the kitchen, helping the workers filling out the wick in the candle molds and running back to the living room to catch up on movies that she was certainly too young to watch.

A house bathing in the sun but the only thing inside was the emptiness of rooms that haven’t hosted furniture for years, roof that have been licking enough to attrack an army of mosquitoes. This was all that was left of her aunt that she could touch.

She closes her eyes trying to remember her wearning only a cream bra with the flower patterns, a skirt that served both as a shirt in a skirt and a big stick that she was threating to beat everyboody up with if they were not focused on making quota for the month.

Amongs the family, as the crazy one. she had a reputation of waking up early and disturbing everyone’s peace by throwing rocks on the roof. I believe it even though I have not seen it myself. What I have seen in my aunt waking up at three in the morning, making sure everything was ready for her to start working and she would work until the sun goes down. She would often take her meal by the basin while she waited for the next batch of candle to be ready to move out of the mold.

I never really though much of her work ethics back then. When she lost everything and had to start over again, going from city to city helping people with natural healing I didn’t think much of it. I was just glad that I got to see her more often because most of the cities she would go to where close to my hometown.

When she shows up with money that I would sit there for what seem like hours to help her count, I was just happy to do activities with her because in some way no matter how much my parents may or may not have loved me, my aunt and I had a different relationship. One that made me feel seen and understood. One that never asked me to be anything but myself.

So when I finally got the chance to fly home and make it back to her house without being in danger of being kidnapped, I was not expectiing her house to be run down. The last physical remnant of her existence slipping. Just like her body buried in a cemetery now too dangerous to visit. And a face I could no longer remain to and not even one photo of her. No flowers. No goodbye. Just memories that I didn’t take the time and care to collect accurately

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.

Anger rises out of me and for a second, I was glad that everyone knew better not to follow me into that empty room. My hear felt ugly and I screamed for the disappointmentof not visiting her when I knew she was sick. I wanted to wait till I could make enough money to get her the things she needed instead of showing up with nothing to offer.

My tears felt hollow now. I was sitting in the middle of the evidence that she is gone and I had no choice but to accept that I will never see her again. I had to admit that I could no longer be mad at myself for not holding long enough for me to visit. It was evident that in a way that we have all failed my aunt. The whole family has and no matter how much special love I got from her I never showed her an ounce of what I wanted to share with her. And I never will. No matter how many no profit I raise in her name, no matter how close I get to making her food recipe, she was gone. And everything I was doing to make it up to her was pointless.

I 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.

Off to America the land of the free where she would be imprisoned for years to come


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 yard was full people were lining up like they had not witness anyone crying before. Family members who had quietly gathered stood with plastic chairs and thermoses of juice and food but the said nothing. I could not look at them, I could not look at myself. But I wiped the tears and walk out not saying a word either.

She decided that 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 with all the kids in America now, 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.