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Of Ghosts and Shadows

I am watching my lover, Amèlie, move through the market sifting through items neither of us can hope to afford. It is stinking hot, the kind of hot where it feels like even my eyeballs are sweating and I want nothing more than to jump into the salty water of the ocean for respite. I am watching my lover because it is too dangerous to do anything but watch. Her face is thin and drawn but when her fingers dance across a trinket she likes or a sweet confection her eyes light up and the muscles in her shoulders relax. I imagine that she is imagining what it would be like to own these petty items she covets. There are a few tourists in the market, walking around confused, as if they read the wrong brochure. Most Americans come to Haiti expecting it to be like Aruba or St. Kitts. They lump all of these small islands into one paradise where libations flow freely and cabana boys are waiting to attend to their every need. Unfortunately, for them, the cabana boys have all fled the country and there is no ice to cool their drinks.

Amèlie and I have known each other since we were children. Our mothers are best friends and together, we watched our fathers taken away for supporting free elections, we watched our brothers disappear into the countryside or the ocean, and we watched each other. We always watched each other. Once, as we sat on her front porch drinking mango juice, holding the cool glasses to our foreheads between sips, she turned to me and said, “Sometimes, Marie Françoise, you are the only thing in this world I care to see.”