Clap When You Land(21)

It’s this same black dress I pull out from the closet to wear to the meeting with the priest.

It still fits. I slide on the straps.

I pull on black stockings despite the heat outside.

Tía doesn’t blink when she sees me.

She just turns around so I can button her white blouse.

She wears a white head wrap too.

I know the priest will raise a brow, but Tía doesn’t care.

She is armored in her Saints,

& they make her brave, or reckless, or are they the same?

All white like this shows undue devotion to the Saints, & our priests don’t want to know what’s practiced in secret.

Tía & I stare at the mirror. The two of us framed in copper.

Tears pool in her gaze & I immediately wipe them where they collect in the wrinkles around her eyes.

She doesn’t flinch at my hand. She curls into my palm.

Tía doesn’t believe girls should wear black.

But if I wasn’t a woman before today,

I think I am one now.





When I ask Tía if my father’s brother, Tío Jorge, will be coming with Papi’s body, she hesitates a long moment & fingers a loose fringe that’s fallen free from her head wrap.

“Bueno, te digo que no sé.”

But her tense shoulders

seem to know more

than she’s telling me.

I look at her sideways

& we walk arm in arm into the church.

“How are we to plan a funeral if we don’t know who’s coming?

Will people be staying with us?

How much do we need to cook?”

A hundred other questions puff into dandelions, wisp up in the air between us but Tía just shakes her head & doesn’t make a wish

on a single one.





In the middle of the night, Tía shakes me awake from a dream

where I am wandering New York City

screaming my father’s name.

At first, I think I must have been screaming out loud, but when my eyes adjust to the dark I see Tía is carrying her healer’s bag.

I get dressed quickly in jeans & sandals.

Do not bother putting on a bra, or brushing my hair.

I can tell by the worried way she rifles inside her bag that this is an emergency situation.

As if we don’t have enough to deal with.

When we step outside the house, a young man waits.

Shadows darken his face, but as I get closer, I see it’s Nelson, Carline’s boyfriend, who made eyes at her since she was five & we would all splash each other in the ocean like we’d discovered a personal water park.

He must have been recruited to fetch us.

I do not ask what is wrong. There is only one reason.

We walk the uneven streets in the dark, Tía’s white clothing a splash of brightness against the unlit night.

Good thing we know this ramshackle neighborhood as well as we know the webs between our fingers.

She stops in front of the yellow house, & there must be a power outage

because inside is pitch black

except for a couple of candles burning in the window.

Carline’s maman opens the door.

Although it is dark, I can see the one-room house is swept clean & scrubbed cleaner.

But still too small for all the people we must fit inside:

Maman & Carline’s father,

an older man who rarely smiles,

& Tía & myself, & Nelson.

& Carline. & Carline’s babe attempting to push itself out.

Carline’s face is red & sweaty; she is sprawled on a faded couch, her hands clutching her belly.





I towel off Carline’s forehead.

Tía asks Carline’s Maman questions

in her calm curandera voice;

“When did the contractions start?”

“When was the last time she went to the clinic?”

“Has her water broken? How long ago?”

Carline clutches my hand tightly,

& I attempt to circle out her worries with my thumb.

If there is anything to be done, Tía will do it.

Carline should be in a hospital,

but Maman says the babe is coming too fast, & they panicked thinking of the logistics.

It is not an easy thing to do,

for a Haitian parent to bring their child to a Dominican hospital to give birth.

There is already a lot of tension around who here deserves care; I cannot fault Maman for being too afraid.

Tía’s questions are asked as firmly as the hand she presses onto Carline’s belly; as a curandera, Tía is fierce, channeling something beyond herself.

I unfold long white sheets & wrap them around cushions to protect the space where Carline will give birth.

I use the flashlight on my phone to get my bearings in the house.

Tía pulls her up by the elbows & bears Carline’s weight, then prays & calls protective spirits into the room; I reach into her bag & grab the tea made from thyme; Carline’s father looks stern, but I see his hands tremble as he settles them on the back of a chair.

He mumbles under his breath in Kreyòl,

& I wonder if he too is praying.