a year ago
I look up from where I am comfortably perched on the couch and watch my mother and aunt in the kitchen, teasing each other in Kreyol.
First they give my kitchen the proper cleaning I have not been allowed to do, making the counter top and appliances shine like never before. Stains I once declared hopeless were gone, scrubbed clean with love, patience, and 409. They then bless my stove top with ingredients only a Haitian mother could create, teasing my nostrils with smells that invoke endless childhood memories.
I’m not necessarily ill but I am in need of help. I have been on bed rest for a week and the matriarchs in my tribe came without waiting for me to ask.
I’m not used to asking for help. In fact, I shy away from all appearances of vulnerability; I struggle alone and in silence.
But today I let the mother hens in my family cluck over me, I halfheartedly wander over, only to be shooed back to my couch and pillows.
I savor my diri ak pwa congo, poule en sauce, and even eat the boiled plantain set aside for me, although I really only prefer sweet plantains. In fact, I would even eat mayi moulen today if it was offered and I hate mayi moulen.
Today no one can snatch me from this cocoon of love I have stretched across my shoulders. It’s nice to be fussed, cared, and loved over, even if just for a day.