The Firefly Letters (5 page)

of the beach.

Gasping for breath,

I struggle to remember

my mother's voice,

and I struggle

to forget

all the rest. . . .

I remember monkeys

swinging and screaming in the great forest

and a cobra swimming between water plants

in a river the color of coffee.

At sunset, the same river looked purple,

and in the morning it was green.

Light was the only thing

that had changed.

Now, on the far side of the world

here in Cuba — island of torment—

I wonder if light from my homeland

follows me at night, in waking dreams

where it is always daytime

and the river is always sky blue

and every sea breeze is sweet

and gentle

like my mother's singsong

lullaby voice.

Cecilia asks me for help—

Fredrika has taken to her bed

with a sick headache

that goes on day after day,

for a week. . . .

I cannot believe

that Cecilia allowed Fredrika to watch

one of the secret ships

as it dropped its cargo on the beach.

Transporting slaves is forbidden

by a treaty with England—

that is why the price of each slave

is so high.

Even though ships from Africa are illegal,

Papá and the other planters

know how to keep them coming,

each with seven or eight hundred

new slaves, mostly children

who are less likely to rebel

or escape.

I remember wild animals

near the river—

crocodiles, hippos, and leopards

who made the night terrifying.

None of those beasts were as frightening

as people — the strangers

who came with guns

to seize children

or with goods

to buy children.

I do not remember

the ocean.

The distance

between then and now

is too vast for memory

or a calendar

or a map.

This island, with its lush gardens

and winter sun,

had me fooled.

I have always imagined

that a gentle climate would make the people

gentle too . . . but that is not the way

of the human heart

when it is lost in the selfishness

of greed.

If only I had known about the boats,

I never would have asked Cecilia

to accompany me to that same cursed

moonlit beach

where she arrived in chains

just a few years ago. . . .

In the eyes of Cecilia

and each enslaved child

I see

hopeful light.

By asking many questions,

I have discovered

that fifty gold American dollars

per child

is the price paid by planters

to silence the magistrates

who might otherwise cause trouble

when forbidden ships

bring new captives

to quiet beaches

under the radiant

dangerous moon.

No wonder Cecilia told me to cover my head

so that I would have a cloth to wipe my eyes

after witnessing a sorrow so great

that I must now think carefully

about how to describe slavery

in such a way

that my true stories

about Cuba

will be believed.

After a weeklong headache,

Fredrika is finally feeling stronger,

so we go out again, at night,

to rescue
cocuyos
.

The insects eventually grow weary of flying

and return to earth

where they are captured again,

so we have to rescue the same fireflies

over and over,

buying them from greedy children

who think we are playing a game.

When Fredrika runs out of pennies,

she spends cookies and bananas

until she is left with nothing to trade

and cannot help the fireflies who remain prisoners

too numerous to save.

Even though we can never help them all,

I feel my mind flying and glowing

along with the winged creatures

that we have rescued

as they soar away, free. . . .

Once again, I watch from the window

while Fredrika and Cecilia

run wildly in circles

setting
cocuyos
free.

A harpist comes to the window,

offering to serenade me

for a price.

I have never possessed

any coins of my own,

so I give him an embroidered

linen handkerchief

that he can trade for coins or food.

After playing three songs,

he strolls away, and I wonder

if anyone will ever

serenade me

for love

instead of money.

I sit with a row of slave women,

teaching them how to sew.

When they do extra work

on Sunday afternoons,

they can earn a bit of money

to save toward buying their freedom

from Papá.