April 9, 1954 – December 28, 1995

Born in a small Haitian village, she carried the island’s rhythm in her step and the scent of hibiscus in her hair. A mother of six, her hands never rested — stirring soup on New Year’s morning, pressing herbs into our palms when we were sick, blessing our foreheads, and throwing water across the front porch before we left the house, as if to wash our path in protection.

Her passing left the house too still, the laughter of children now an echo, her chair by the window forever empty. Yet I find her in the light on the garden, in the lull of Creole songs, in the ocean’s whisper on warm nights.

She was our anchor, our first home, and our guide. Though she has returned to the sea that shaped her, her love reaches us still — in every wave, in every breath of wind, in every act of courage she taught us to carry.