Return To Sender

I stand on top of the forth with my hands clutching the cold...black...iron canon. The French and the British are fighting for territory. But I am not a soldier of war, I’m a slave. What once was mine is being destroyed by others who have no claim to it.

It is almost sun down and the scent of death and fear linger in the air. I need to go somewhere, anywhere, I need to think about this. How did I get here? My hands are bloody and bruised, my clothes are stained with blood, but it’s not my blood. My people and I, we built this forth one stone slab at a time. It is amazing what the human mind and body is capable of doing, even under the worst of conditions.

So many secrets live within these stone carvings, among these walls, and among these steps. I’ve made a friend, he’s a soldier, he gives me food, and he cries on my shoulder as he clutches the picture of his wife and daughter. I feel the warmth of someone else’s hand on my shoulder, I gasp for air, and then I close my eyes out of fear.

Excuse me mademoiselle, Do you speak English?
Can you take a picture of my wife, daughter, and I?

And just like that…
The hands on my shoulder helps reality find me again amongst the tourist. I’m standing at the top of the forth we call Brimstone Hill Fortress in the island of St. Kitts, it’s situated 800 feet above sea level, and sprawls over 38 acres . Construction on the fortress began in the year 1690 and continued over a 100 year period. Brimstone Hill itself emerged as a result of underwater volcanic activity approximately 6,000 years ago. The Fortress was used as a means of defense against enemy fire and a place of asylum for planters and merchants during times of war.

It is a beautiful sunny day, the kind of picture perfect day that post cards are made of. The wind caresses my skin as my body sways to the melody of the crashing waves of the ocean. And like a singing bowl, the clicking of the camera chimes and begins the ceremony. Ding…Ding…Ding…
I feel a brush of wind across my cheek, a good-bye kiss from the souls of my ancestors perhaps. Each time the camera clicks, the sound of the singing bowl chimes and it sets a soul free because a story has been told by a tour guide. The story and history of my people revealed and now their souls has returned home… it has been returned to sender.