Personal Narrative: The Day I Left Haiti

It has been six years since I left Haiti at the age of four. For me it’s been a lifetime at this point. So long that I don’t remember any of the basic rituals of my family. Jet lag knocked me out so badly the night before, I don’t remember what I did after getting off the plane. Bleary eyed and confused I don’t understand why I’m being woken up. The desire to return to sleep so strong I nearly said a curse word. But in that moment a breeze blew in a mouth-watering aroma I didn’t want nor could ignore. My mouth was open to complain but my tongue sampled the scent and I was rendered speechless. I became so enveloped in the aroma that I barely noticed the coolness of the concrete floor nor the fact that I had even gotten up and walked to the kitchen table. My focus turned to the source of my tantalization. A cup that grandma placed on the table for me. It was just a simple cup of coffee with two sticks of cinnamon in it. The fragrant cup was match by an alluring flavor. It felt like a warm hug with a kiss from

Nothing seems to compare. One frigid morning before work I walked across the street to get a cup of coffee while I waited for my work supervisor to arrive and unlock the door. Much to my surprise, an aroma that I hadn’t smelled since I was little greeted me at the doorway of the bakery. In that moment, I was a little girl walking into grandma’s kitchen. When my turn to order arrived I stumbled with my limited Spanish to say, “Café con leche y canela.” As much I despise being awake before sunrise, that morning I was grateful for that pre-dawn rising. With tears in my eyes I took a sip and felt again my grandma’s hug and kiss. I will never see her again due to her passing away but with that cup she was with me for the whole day. That hint of fresh cinnamon carries the spirit of grandma for me. It still is the scent of her traveling through time and space to give me a hug and a