WASHTUB MEMORIES (thoughts of Haiti) click for comment

Today I saw this picture and I journeyed back in time
When I
left my flip flops at the front door of granddad’s house
and walked down the path on the rocks
to my neighbor’s, I mean, my cousin’s house
to make mud-pies decorated with those same rocks
those rocks used to torture my feet
when I walked on those rocks with no shoes
Had to wash those dirty feet and body in a wash tub
Washtub filled with the water I had boiled on the stove
mixed with cold water that I’d pumped from the well
Always fresh water in grandma’s well in the front yard
The front yard where grandma’s chickens used to roam sometimes
I’d run from those chickens everyday, those chickens were fierce
but those same chickens laid the eggs we ate for breakfast
those eggs came from grandma’s chicken coop
You know that coop? The one we played hide and seek behind
That rickety old coop next to granddaddy’s dog pen
That old dog pen used to cage those hunting dogs that barked all night
Man, I hated going to the outhouse at night
Cause at night you had to carry granddaddy’s 10lb heavy duty flashlight
That flashlight attracted the biggest lightening bugs
Those same bugs that my cousin used to catch
Caught them and put them in a preserve jar
The jars that used to hold grandma’s apples that she canned
Umm, umm, grandma’s fried apples were the best right before school...
Whew, elementary school! Belfield School where the kids used to mock me
Mock me for being different, looking different, and sounding different
Sounding “too city” or as they would put it. They used to tease me and say,
“You tawlk funny!”
I talked too city to be country, too country to be city (back then)
They said, “Young, city folk can’t walk on rocks with no shoes
Can’t make rocks skip on the pond”
Do you remember that pond?
The one we used to cross down the path to get to the bus?
The bus that used to pick us up from the mailboxes we used to sit on
You remember those mailboxes? The ones that didn’t have addresses but
route numbers. “Route number...” those two words ring loud in my spirit. “Route” the path that led me to Haiti last year. “Number” the amount of times I think back on how many baths I took in wash tubs. “Number”, the amount of times I think about how Haitians will have to take many more baths in washtubs....in buckets...in dirty streams...and in polluted rivers. Lord, change the route, change the path, and change the destiny to something far better for Haiti.