Une Lettre d'une Amie

1.30.2014

Composed by Kelli Landry

Lafayette, Louisiana

by way of

Pierre Part, Louisiana

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Waking up to the sunlight. There’s something so human about waking with the birds. Free from man made devices; alarms that our bodies reject with our hands stamping down on it. But the morning sunlight. It’s gentle, subtle, loving, like my Ma when she used to softly shake me from my dreams when I was a child.

It’s early. Probably 8:30AM. I’m looking forward to this morning. We are fully equipped. Eggs, bacon, coffee, music. Waking up to a Freetown morning, there is a special anticipation.

My two friends, the lovely Zoë and Katie, live in what I call “the camp.” Wooden walls, wooden floors, 2 bedrooms, 1 bath, 3 cats, no wi-fi, no dishwasher, no TV, and a gas stove. We crawl out of our cocoons that we wrapped ourselves in from the night before. Zoë turns on the stove to heat the kettle. First things first for a Cajun girl. Coffee. Brewed in the French press. We wait. And wait. The kettle overflows.

“Shit.”
Zoë sees that it overflows. Grabs it off the stove, pours the coffee into the press. There’s something holy about fresh caffeine. Not even that it warms you or wakes you up. But sitting down with my friends, and soaking up every drop of peace.

We go to the kitchen, and both sinks are filled with dishes. I volunteer to wash, while Katie and Zo prepare for our morning meal.

“Old school or new school?” Zo asks both of us.

“Definitely old school.” Katie says. We all agree.
We wash dishes. The bacon fries. Egg shells are cracked. The cast iron heats up. Cleoma Breaux, D.L. Menard, Amede Ardoin, Iry Lejeune, The Balfa Brothers sing from Zo’s computer. Our old school.

There is silence amongst all of us. And this is where I can’t help but fall in love.

There was something about washing the dishes, hearing the tinkering in the kitchen, smelling the bacon fry, tasting the coffee, and hearing the cries of a Cajun people sing about love, heartbreak, the 2-step, front porches, ... listening to the fiddle, accordion, and guitar among others come together in friendship.

Every once in a while I’d look back, and take it all in. Seeing us not just as three women cooking breakfast together, but loving every step of the process, even in the little silence of the morning. There was no need for conversation at that moment. Just listening to the songs of our true home. What brings about a simpler time. With shotgun houses that were filled with what was necessary, with a meal made and shared among friends, with music that wasn’t made for money, but for the love of an existence that remains today still very much alive.
We sit down at the round table, with no reservations. Three friends sitting down as a family around a table with no edges. No one excluded, and I’m thinking about the Acadians. They hiked to the ends of the earth to be reunited with their relatives who were lost after the exile. What a passion to search for family of which we don’t choose, from who we are born crying into this world hoping to feel like we belong.

I’ve never felt more at home sitting down in this small spot in the world. Louisiana. Lafayette. Freetown. The camp. A round table. With people who I consider my family. Who, if ever separated, I would crawl through the soil to find again just so I can sit with them in silence during a gloomy morning listening to a Cajun song with our only concern of living unapologetically.