After the sixth baby is born and tucked in, beside their mother, I walk from room to room, one more time before taking a shower and lying down. Every bed has a few people in them. Two grandmothers from different families sleep on a single bed; their two great grandchildren born within minutes of each other in beds on either side. Their heads, sharing one pillow, are wrapped in a swirl of lace and cloth.
Two very young cousins snuggle into a bed with the new baby they both worked so hard together to help be born. They make a heart with their sweet, teen age bodies around this new tiny little girl.
Moms in bed and Dads beside them on blankets on the floor. The occasional sound of a baby crying and asking to be put back to the breast.
Relatives from different families, who never went to sleep, sit on the porch talking with one another and sharing food. Outside, there is the sounds of the sheets being washed by sisters or aunts, squatting over tubs of water as they talk of birth and the days to come. The roosters and cows and goats remind me that although my day is just ending, it is morning here.
The skies are a gentle pink behind the mountains they call Mourn Rogue or the Red Mountains. They are a gentle slope of an ancient volcanic mountain range that is mostly buried beneath the sea, leaving 700 islands here in the West Indies. I tell the TBA that Haiti was once a volcano and I can see that she thinks this is just another one of my tall tales like a cervix opening inside a mother. She smiles at me and shakes her head and does not believe a word of it.
The mountains are the background of all our days and seem to hold us tenderly in their long sloping arms. I look out at them and the sunrise and then find a little rest.