guest post Brooke Irvine

Time passes. Slowly at times, at others it flies by so quickly one can hardly catch a glimpse. In rare instances, time comes to a screeching halt, some events in our tiny lives manage to be so huge that even time seems to pay homage. When I close my eyes and think about these few moments in my short life, there is one place that occurs more often than any other. It is a simple place. A simple slab of concrete and a few steps. A place to shake the dust off your feet, a place of welcome, a place to say goodbye, a peaceful place, and a place the earth shook.
This place is on a tiny island off the coast of a tiny island. It was on La Gonave, and it was my home. More specifically, the entrance to my home, the front porch. It was small, too small even for a chair. It was usually a bit dusty. Sitting on the top step, there was a view of my yard, brown and dusty in the dry season, and green and lush when the rains came. The trees sheltering it had tiny purple flowers and strange yellow seeds. The sunsets from there were incredible. The Caribbean sky would be streaked with all the colors of the rainbow, the vibrant reds and pinks mingling first with yellow, then fading from purple to an inky blank. It always had a funny green tinge just before a torrential downpour. I remember sitting there when God sent the rains. The first of the season was always the best. The hard drops would start suddenly, sending up puffs of powdery dust when they hit the ground. The people and animals cacophony would suddenly die away as all took shelter and observed the life giving gift. I would sit, letting the cool drops sooth my parched skin as it did the dust. My clothes would be thoroughly soaked in a mater of minutes, but I didn’t care. The thunder and lightning and pitch black dark would finally force me to the refuge of my home, never with fear, but with a heart rejoicing. We were remembered. The rains had come and for a moment all was well, and there was peace in that.
This was a place of life. Of comings and goings, of business and laughter. My father would sit after work had finished for the day, until after dark. He would talk and laugh and teach, rebuke. Young men would sit and listen and converse. It was a place of community, it was a place of learning.
I remember the day a sick and scared looking little boy crossed the threshold. He had never been in a place like this or with people like us. My nephew, Wilkenson Moise. He came in that door and the door of my heart, one of which he never walked back out of. Picasso, my puppy, a source of comfort and annoyance too sat on that porch. I remember the night he came. So adoreable, sitting between my reluctant fathers feet. The two of them had an interesting relationship. Will was terrified of Picasso. Everytime the dog came near, he would have to be held. The terror however quickly disappeared when they were on other sides of the screen door. Will would trash talk, saying things like, “Al kashe tet ou” (Go hide your head)
Family and friends ect coming and leaving
earthquake
me leaving finally
It was a place I found God. He was in the whispering breezes, the beauty of the sunset, and the trembling of the earth under my feet.