When She Is Home I Am Home

How do I teach a thirteen-year-old Haitian daughter the difference between earning something and surviving? Wait a minute. Maggie’s knee is bleeding. She just learned to ride her bike and things went a bit awry. “What Emma?” “Why do you want to go float the river in Townsend with a friend when you swore you would never do it again.”

And now dinner.

It usually happens sometime mid-week. I miss her. I feel lonely and isolated despite being surrounded by a multitude of estrogen and one big, hairy dog. Abby is again in Haiti doing what she is called to do. I understand this call. I have heard its song ringing in my head when it would have been so much easier to continue my occupation of a comfortable leather couch. This feeling is not overwhelming. There is too much required to allow that. It is more like a breeze. It brushes by only to be appreciated in a quiet moment. One must be aware to feel its presence.

I long for the daily phone call. A few minutes to exchange events and experiences of our days. She would say I should call her but I am aware of the pressures of leading a group of eager volunteers to remote Haiti. I appreciate the constant demands which are placed. A continuous stream of decisions both large and small are presented without care of one’s state of exhaustion. Tonight our talk was a good one. We share events of our day, confirm plans for coming weeks and generally connect. It is good.

She will be home in a few days. That is good. This comes not from a desperate need for help. Many hands make for light work. When she is home I am home and this is what is good.

It is always busy when one of us is away. It provides an opportunity to maximize efficiency and build teamwork. It isn’t a great time to teach girls to ride bikes, allow Lenia to cut her braids (and most of her hair) out and spend time driving to Clinton to pick up parts for a thirty-year-old truck but it happens. This is our life. Don’t even get me started on the old motorcycle…