The Firefly Letters (4 page)

little creatures I have ever seen.

They flock to me at night,

resting on my fingers

so that, while I am sketching

and writing letters,

I need no other lantern,

just the light

from their movements.

I skim my hand across the page

while the brilliant
cocuyos
help me decide

what to write — there is so much to tell.

How can I describe this shocking journey?

I must speak of Cecilia's homesickness

and her lung sickness

and the way her baby

is doomed to be born

into slavery.

I must describe Elena's loneliness

and her longing for a sense of purpose.

Somehow, I must show my readers

the bright flowers and glowing insects

that make Cuba's night

feel like morning.

When we visit the little huts

where freed slaves live without masters,

Fredrika asks them if they are happy

even though she already knows

the answer.

I believe she simply enjoys the chance

to hear free men and women

describe their little farms

as bits of paradise.

When she asks me if I long

for my birthplace in the Congo,

I tell her that I miss my mother,

and I ask her to put my words

in her letters, so that others will know

what it is like

to be a slave

so far from home.

Cecilia has just explained

Los Cuatro Consuelos,

“The Four Comforts” required

by Cuban law

as consolation

for slaves.

They have the right

to buy freedom

and the right to marry

and the right to own property

and the right to petition

for transfer

to a new owner

if the first one turns out

to be cruel

or unfair. . . .

Of course, none of this seems

adequate or logical

because how can slavery

ever be fair?

When I ask Cecilia

if wealthy planters

honor these laws,

she smiles in a wistful way

that helps me understand

why my question

is foolish.

We go out at night

to rescue fireflies.

Children catch the friendly
cocuyos

and pull off their wings

or put them in bottles

to make little lamps

where the insects glow and fly

until they starve.

Women tie living
cocuyos

onto their ruffled dresses as ornaments

and girls weave them

into their hair

like flashing jewels.

Fredrika and I

feel like heroines in a story,

following people around

buying captive fireflies

and setting them free.

I notice Elena

peering down from her window,

smiling as she watches

us rush around in circles

rescuing hundreds of small bright creatures

from the sad fate of all

living captives,

even those

with wings.

How disturbing it feels

to envy Cecilia,

a slave.

She is free,

at least for now,

to run and shout

out in the open

with Fredrika,

talking to strangers

and splashing

in mud puddles

just like a man

or a boy.

How I wish

that I could go out with them

tonight, to the beach!

In a moment

of hesitant courage

I ask Mamá

to let me venture outdoors . . .

but she scolds me for wishing

to have muddy shoes

and a chance to run

faster and faster

in circles

beneath the light

of the eerie,

dangerous moon.

Cubans believe moonlight

is harmful.

Cecilia covers her head

with a blue turban. She warns me

that I should protect myself

from the moon,

although she cannot say

exactly why.

The beach is so lovely

that I feel like a flying fish,

as if I am soaring

up into the starlit sky.

When Cecilia suddenly runs away

from a few small boats

that are bobbing on the waves,

I am perplexed.

How can anything

as beautiful as a moonlit night

be dangerous?

I try to warn her,

but she will not listen.

She jumps up and down

in the roaring waves

like a happy child.

The boats are close now—

I cannot stay!

The memory of arrival

and loss

is too fresh.

Fredrika does not see their faces yet,

all the children from a slave ship

riding in those small boats,

gliding toward this lonely shore

in chains.

I run and run

until my lungs ache

and I cough

and then I collapse

in the muddy road

that leads away

from the soft sand