Lé m’ t’yon ti gason an—when I was a little boy—I believed it was Père Noël who left kado under the Christmas tree for me and my sisters. Me and Jeanne-Marie and Nathalie would put our shoes by the fireplace and fill them with carrots and pain patate for Père Noël and his donkey the night before Christmas. And while we slept three-in-a-bed, Père Noël would let us know in the best way possible that we’d been bon gacon ak tifi that year.
He would leavebannann yo and a shiny Full Steam Ahead! Airship for me, pom yo and a brand new thaumatrope for Jeanne-Marie, and joumou yo and a colorful wooden marionette for Nathalie. As we played with our toys and munched on our fruit Christmas morning,
me and my sisters were amazed that Père Noël knew exactly what we
wanted and liked.
By the time I was eight years old, though, I knew that Papa ate the carrots and
sweetbread we’d left in our shoes, and that Manman stayed up all night to wrap the toys and arrange the plantains, apples and pumpkins under the Christmas tree just right.
But I didn’t tell Jeanne-Marie and Nathalie.
And then Papa died.
Eventually, Jeanne-Marie and Nathalie also found out Père Noël wasn’t real, but we continued to put our only pair of shoes by the fireplace on Christmas Eve anyway. And though Manman didn’t tell me, I knew I was supposed to eat the kawòt yo and pain patate in our shoes just before we went to bed.
Life was very difficult those first few years after Papa died, especially for Manman. She didn’t say much in those days. Trankil ak tris. Manman had been like a quiet, sad ghost: sometimes there, sometimes not, but always unhappy.
We hadn’t been pòv when Papa was alive, but we hadn’t been rich, either. Papa had done all right as a charcoal burner, peddling his coal. And Manman had made some extra coin selling her pain patate.
But after Papa died, Manman had gone from selling pain patate for two hours at the farmer’s market to hawking it from sun up to sundown. She was hardly home. The most we saw of Manman was her climbing beneath the covers every night. Jeanne-Marie and Nathalie made sure she got some food in her before she fell asleep, though,
even if it was just a little bit of pumpkin soup.
So it was a surprise for me and Jeanne-Marie and Nathalie to wake up Christmas morning during those years and find fruit and toys waiting for us. I used to think that Manman would pull her tired self out of bed in the wee hours of that special morning and wrap and arrange the bannann an, pom an, joumou an,airship, thaumatrope, and marionette as we slept. So when I was eleven years old, I tried to stay up all night Christmas Eve and catch her in the act.
But as far as I could tell, the only time Manman stirred was when we woke her the next morning to come look at the fruit and toys someone not Père Noël had left. Manman had seemed just as surprised as us to see them under the tree.
As the years passed, Manman shook off her sadness and became her wonderful cheery self again and things got a little better for us. Copper was still sparse and times were still hard, but a Christmas didn’t go by without fruit and toys—sweeter and more intricate than the year before—under the tree.
And now, fifteen years later, I know how they got there.
Malon Edwards’ After Papa Died (An excerpt of LuneWing)
