I write this in the dark, under the lowered tailgate of Papa's station wagon, with a full
strawberry moon
turning blood illuminating my words in fluorescent gel. Papa is stumbling around our campfire with flames shooting four feet in the air. If he falls, he'll be charred like
Uncle Tonton's burnt
beignet.
I crawled under here to get away from Papa's crazy screaming and getting mad at Milo. He threw a chunk of firewood at Milo's head, but missed by a Milo. No joke.
Grann, I wish you were here with me, I'd crawl into your lap, even if
Ma mere
thinks I'm too old; you're the only one that can comfort me without trying. I'm all grown, but Ma mere told me to go to bed, as if I'm a baby, and get out of Papa's hair. I don't mind. Tomorrow will come early.
Tomorrow, we leave; Papa wants to see the ocean, and he says it's a full day away.