The Firefly Letters (9 page)

Will I ever feel as free

as during those mornings

when I sketched banana trees

and wildflowers

on the farm of the Canary Islanders

where I felt like an orphan

in a story,

an orphan who has finally

been adopted?

For now, I am stuck

in the city

once again.

This will be my first visit

to the Ball of Free Blacks.

Elena gives me a blue satin dress,

and Fredrika helps me adjust the waist

to fit my growing belly.

If only Beni could attend too

and dance with me

at the Ball . . .

but my husband must stand

beside Elena's carriage,

protecting the valuable horse

from thieves

and mischievous children

who might try to ride

just for fun.

I have grown to admire

my husband's dedication

to the constant

protection and care

of each horse.

I believe he will be

a good father.

Flowers, lamps, and ornaments

decorate the dance hall.

There must be three hundred people,

all fashionably dressed,

dancing minuets

and trailing garlands of roses.

Fredrika stands beside a table

loaded with bouquets.

She stares at a line of ants

as they carry flower petals

up a wall,

balancing them

like colorful umbrellas.

She does not seem impressed

with frilly dresses

and ornate dance steps.

I suppose she is accustomed

to all the luxuries

of Europe.

After the ball

we climb up to the roof of my house

to watch stars

fall from the sky.

Where do they land?

Are they really good luck?

Cecilia watches

with one hand on her belly

and tears in her eyes.

I imagine she must be wishing

on a star . . . wishing for her baby's

freedom.

Wishing on stars brings nothing

but disappointment.

How can I ever manage

to buy my baby's freedom,

and even if I could,

what would happen next?

Would my child grow up

ashamed of parents

who are slaves?

The ways of this island

are too confusing for me.

I just want to breathe

without gasping for air

and love my baby

without struggling

to understand

the impossible future.

The Ball of Free Blacks

reminded me of dances in Europe.

The dancers were stiff.

In my sketchbook

they look like lines of ants

trailing flowers.

My sketchbook is filled

with pictures of more inspired dances,

the ones held outdoors

where the men move like warriors

and the women sway

like trees

in a dream.

There is a dance with masks

that make the men look like lions

and one with horned headdresses

and another with graceful parasols

made of palm leaves.

My sketchbook is bursting

with stories

told by dances,

stories about life on two shores . . .

two distant lands,

Africa and Cuba,

joined and also separated

by the endless flow

of ocean waves

that sound

like music. . . .

When we visit the homes of free blacks

out in the countryside,

Fredrika keeps asking

a thousand questions

about their daily life.

Together, we listen to the tale

of an old man who rescued

his owner's children

during a slave rebellion

on another island.

He rowed a small boat

all the way to Cuba

where he lived as a free man,

working for wages

and caring for the children

he raised as his own.

Now, the two boys are grown

and they take care of him,

and together

all of them wonder

why the ability to share freedom

is such a rare

and fragile gift.

They tell me they do not believe

that people are either

black or white—

if that were so, then mixed-race children

would all be gray

instead of a myriad

lovely warm shades

of natural brown.

I sit alone in my room

at the ornately barred window,

embroidering curlicues

like the fancy ironwork

that separates me

from the rest of the world.

I watch as my needle pierces

soft cloth.

The movement of the needle

helps my mind move back and forth

between many thoughts.

Why should a woman like Fredrika

have to choose between a career and love?

She would make such a good wife

and mother, if only she lived

in some distant future

when women will be free

to do more with their lives

than just sit behind bars,

embroidering cloth

for a hope chest that brings

no hope.