Adrift in a state somewhere between unconsciousness and lucidity, Sam focused on Jemima, who was languishing in an old rocker, her yellow-flecked eyes trying to capture his wandering gaze. In his dream-state, he had entered her home, a brightly blue painted cottage with red shutters and gingerbread trim. Its front door was one step up from the street and next to a noisy gay bar at Dauphine and Dumaine.
The words Honne and Respe were hand-painted over a crucifix mounted near the door. Sam remembered the words from his youth–“honor” and “respect,” the traditional greeting on entering a Haitian home.
HonneRespeThe notes of a Blues rift pushed back against the ever-present humidity when Sam drifted into the parlor. An altar in the corner was crowded with voodoo paraphernalia and burning cand
