On day five, we visited Our Lady of Fatima, a sanctuary built on top of a mountain in Haiti. To get there, we started with a lengthy bus ride, snaking through hills and up treacherously steep slopes. At a certain point, the mountain became too steep, and we had to get out of the bus and hoof it the rest of the way up.
I don't go on many hikes, but, at the time, I was an 18-year-old, healthy equestrian who exercised regularly. And to this day, my thighs burn with PTSD from that particular hike.
Imagine the sun tracing your skin with its scorching fingers, the air in your lungs heavy. The coastline and blanket of greenery before it captivate your tired mind in the moments you stop and rest. The ordinary beige of the path ahead presses gravity more heavily upon your back as your legs ache.
And then...
But this spectacular view was not what made that hike worth it.
In the sanctuary, we were greeted by a priest who told us more about Our Lady of Fatima, the pilgrimages taken to the destination and the thousands who would brave that mountain for a special, annual service. As we stood to begin our tour, about seven or eight children appeared.
The priest explained that these children and their families had attempted to flee to the Dominican Republic in hopes of a better life, but had gotten caught and sent back without a place to live. When they were sent back with nothing, the sanctuary offered them a home.
Without hesitation, the children infiltrated our ranks, immediately winning us over as they took us by the hand and led us on their own tour following in the footsteps of our tour guide. We walked with the children bustling around us, but about a quarter of the way in I noticed that three of them would pause every so often.
It seemed as though they had it in a rotation. One would go barefoot, one would have the broken sandal and the last would wear the other. And then they'd pause and switch it all up again with an ease of familiarity that told me this was a mundane routine in their everyday lives. But the sight of it knocked a piece of my heart loose, sent it clattering down the ridges of my ribs as it fell to my stomach.
There are not enough words in the world to explain to you exactly how that felt. It was a deep sorrow rooting me in place. It was a desperate desire to reject what I had witnessed and all that it implied. It was a profound love, an inconceivable generosity, an unrelenting kindness. It was extraordinary in every sense of the word.
Before the tour, a girl, about 7, and a boy, about 5, had decided that I was theirs for the day. The boy was quiet, holding onto my hand or wrapping his arm around me and smiling shyly. The girl was an extrovert, and eventually we started talking.
Although I'd taken six years of French, my vocabulary and speaking skills were limited, and a lack of confidence had kept me from speaking French for most of the trip. When she and I stared talking, it was the first time I had gotten to have a true conversation with anyone there.
"Tu as une soeur?" she asks me. I tell her I have both a sister and a brother. I can't remember the word for twins, so I tell her they're the same age. She fills in the word for me. "Les jumeaux," she says. She continues to ask me questions about my family, why I'm here, where I come from, if I would be staying long. She noticed the pieces of hair that had escaped my bun, curling at the nape of my neck in the humidity. "Tu as des boucles?" she asks, touching a strand. I do my best to explain that the humidity makes it worse, fumbling over my words.
But she doesn't mind. She helps me when I get stuck. If I don't know the meaning of a question or word, she rephrases so that I do understand. We must have spent a solid two hours just talking.
Both of the kids liked to hold my water bottle for me, which was really just a way to free up my hand for their hand. When I came to Haiti, I didn't own a reusable water bottle, so I bought a couple of Smart Waters in the airport to use and refill during the trip. At one point the conversation lagged, so I asked if they both wanted to see something cool, reaching for the bottle.
Reluctantly, they released my arms and relinquished the bottle. I knelt down so I was at eye level with them, turning the bottle until I thought they could see it. "Tu peux voir le poisson?" I asked. They stared into the water intently, looking back at me in confusion. I turned the bottle a little more, peering in with them. "Là," I said, pointing to the golden fish stuck on the inside of every Smart Water.
The moment the fish caught their eyes, smiles broke across their faces. "Oh!" they both said, the shape of the word holding their mouths open in pleasantly surprised expressions. They then took turns holding the bottle and peering through the water to see it, the little picture eliciting gleeful laughs.
When I returned home, this was a moment I held onto or, more accurately, it held onto me. The summer ended, I started my first year in college, and, at times, it felt as if life had simply moved on. I felt separated from the children and the place I loved and from its hardship, the ties seeming to fade. I grasped desperately to everything I had gone through while there, determined not to forget a single second.
But my memory does not hold up well against the test of time, and Haiti became distant in the midst of papers, classes and exams.
One day, I walk into Passport Cafe, one of the dining locations on campus. The smell of paninis hits me the moment I walk in the door, and my stomach growls angrily after being neglected through morning classes. I wait in line letting my gaze wander, my mouth watering at the case of gelato. My eyes make their way to the stand of water bottles to the right of the cash register, and my lungs halt mid-breath.
Usually the bottles are perfectly aligned, the brand logo facing forward. But today, instead of tall letters branded into a blue background, I see a golden fish staring back at me.
And suddenly, I'm watching a little girl in a neon pink dress smile up at me, her eyes filled with interest and the weight of life. Her voice lifts above the sounds of the cafe, transporting me miles away where a little boy leans against me as we walk down a dust ridden path. I work to keep from tripping over his feet. He is so small against my side, and all I want to do is protect him from the cruelty of a world that does not care.
The line moves.
I move, too, but everything around me has shifted, my hunger forgotten. The memory is a physical blow to my entire system, and I am encompassed by the feel of my heart breaking all over again.
I miss them. It's not every day, and much of the time the memories rest idle in the back of my mind. But in those moments when the painfully broken beauty of a golden fish causes worlds to collide, I miss them profoundly. And that will never leave me.
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