Krik_ Krak! - Edwidge Danticat [11]
I followed her cries to the prison. Her face was swollen to three times the size that it had been. She had to drag herself across the clay floor on her belly when I saw her in the prison cell. She was like a snake, some-one with no bones left in her body. I was there watching when they shaved her head for the first time. At first I thought they were doing it so that the open gashes on her scalp could heal. Later, when I saw all the other women in the yard, I realized that they wanted to make them look like crows, like men.
Now, Manman sat with the Madonna pressed against her chest, her eyes staring ahead, as though she was looking into the future. She had never talked very much about the future. She had always believed more in the past.
When I was five years old, we went on a pilgrimage to the Massacre River, which I had expected to be still crimson with blood, but which was as clear as any water that I had ever seen. Manman had taken my hand and pushed it into the river, no farther than my wrist. When we dipped our hands, I thought that the dead would reach out and haul us in, but only our own faces stared back at us, one indistinguishable from the other.
With our hands in the water, Manman spoke to the sun. "Here is my child, Josephine. We were saved from the tomb of this river when she was still in my womb. You spared us both, her and me, from this river where I lost my mother."
My mother had escaped El Generalissimo's soldiers, leaving her own mother behind. From the Haitian side of the river, she could still see the soldiers chopping up her mother's body and throwing it into the river along with many others.
We went to the river many times as I was growing up. Every year my mother would invite a few more women who had also lost their mothers there.
Until we moved to the city, we went to the river every year on the first of November. The women would all dress in white. My mother would hold my hand tightly as we walked toward the water. We were all daughters of that river, which had taken our mothers from us. Our mothers were the ashes and we were the light. Our mothers were the embers and we were the sparks. Our mothers were the flames and we were the blaze. We came from the bottom of that river where the blood never stops flowing, where my mother's dive toward life—her swim among all those bodies slaughtered in flight—gave her those wings of flames. The river was the place where it had all begun.
'At least I gave birth to my daughter on the night that my mother was taken from me," she would say. 'At least you came out at the right moment to take my mother's place."
Now in the prison yard, my mother was trying to avoid the eyes of the guard peering down at her.
"One day I will tell you the secret of how the Madonna cries," she said.
I reached over and touched the scabs on her fingers. She handed me back the Madonna.
I know how the Madonna cries. I have watched from hiding how my mother plans weeks in advance for it to happen. She would put a thin layer of wax and oil in the hollow space of the Madonna's eyes and when the wax melted, the oil would roll down the little face shedding a more perfect tear than either she and I could ever cry.
"You go. Let me watch you leave," she said, sitting stiffly.
I kissed her on the cheek and tried to embrace her, but she quickly pushed me away.
"You will please visit me again soon," she said.
I nodded my head yes.
"Let your flight be joyful," she said, "and mine too."
I nodded and then ran out of the yard, fleeing before I could flood the front of my dress with my tears. There had been too much crying already.
Manman had a cough the next time I visited her. She sat in a corner of the yard, and as she trembled in the sun, she clung to the Madonna.
"The sun can no longer warm God's creatures," she said. "What has this world come to when the sun can no longer warm God's creatures?"
I wanted to wrap my body around hers, but I knew she would not let me.
"God only knows what I have got under my skin from being