On a table in my living room two statues, once carve by a nameless Haitian artisan, stand. One is a statue of a Haitian woman, with some burden balanced skillfully atop her head. The other is a Haitian man, bending over to play a drum. They are colorful, and beautiful and I love them. There is just one problem, they keep falling over because they sit atop inadequate bases.
I vaccum the floor, and sit them upright. The kids flop down on the couch, and they fall down. I walk through the semi-darkness in the morning to make a cup of tea, and stand them up again. Someone slams a backpack down a bit too hard, and down they go. Over the years, I have dug them from beneath the end table, and sofa countless times. I wish I could say they have survived their frequent tumbles unscathed but that would be untrue. Their bright Caribeean paint is chipped in places, and the woman has lost part of her arm. I guess some people would become exasperated with them and toss them away, but I can’t. I love them. After all, it is not their fault there is no stable place to plant their feet.
Much like Haiti.