Sitting on the banks of Cane River, watching Ashley and Sara Kathryn play on the
other side, I listen to the tales the lapping of the water against the banks tell me.
The sun sets a beautiful golden brown, yellow and red, all the colors of my creed
and culture. The old waters and fading sun warm my face and wet my throat as I close my eyes to listen.
They tell me of rich white cotton fields, and delicious smells on Sunday afternoons, of my grandmother's bottling
file' and stringing red peppers, of Big Al rocking the riverbank and the voices of my daddy and yours being heard
across the river's wake.
The old water's show me pictures of the strong beautiful women and the proud, hardworking men.
The sun shines on my church and warms the stones of those who made the river full of love, family and God.
And I do confess, now hundreds of miles away, I cry for the thick heat, and troublesome mosquitoes.
My heart aches to sit in the cool church and stare at Mr. Augustine's painting, to run up and down the winding
road, on a Sunday afternoon visiting my old people, accepting Aunt Secoon's warm embraces and Mama Glo's kisses
and listening to the stories they have to tell.
That is when I am proud of who I am, A Creole woman, full of the strength of that river and the fire of the sun.
And I as walk under that black iron arch of St. Augustine's church, I pray to be as strong as my grandma, to carry
my grandfather's pride on my shoulders, to achieve my mother's intelligence and my father's love, the strongest
of them all.
A proud Creole, I am.
My skin, showing the colors of the sunset, knowing my blood is mixed with the history of this river; that I will
always return to fish with My Uncle Al, go to dances in the hall, and to bury those that are the roots of this
community.
I will return to eat Aunt Vera's meat pies, tour Melrose and bring my kids to the church fair.
I will sit on the banks of Cane River and listen to the water tell its tale and watch that Creole Sunset until
my very last day.
