For the rain

In creole, the word for an umbrella is 'parapli.' Literally translated a 'for the rain.' And in a place with so much cultural ambiguity and chaos, I am thankful for this simple and easily understood translation. In fact, so much of the time. When I am out walking. When I stumble into this conversation or that. When I am left scratching my head, and wondering, no matter how well I can speak this language, how much do I actually understand of this life. 

I walk the same route every day. About an hour and fifteen minutes, the first 45 being entirely up hill, and turning around when I arrive at a small baptist church in a little town up the mountain called Fort Jacque. 

I've made many friends along the way. A tailor who always shouts, is that you, Isabel. To which I reply, no, it's a different one. 

Two litte girls, their mother dead, working with their grandmother, selling bags of pistachios and popcorn. I pick them up at the corner near their house, and they walk the last leg of my journey, to the church, before turning back and cutting across the field to go home. We part ways, and they turn to me expectantly.

Tomorrow if God wills it, Izabel.

Yes, see you tomorrow little ones. 

And I walk home. 

Wondering what God wills. For me. For them. 

And why.

More than anything. 

Why me? And why them.