Mama’s Nightingale

When Mama first goes away, what I miss most is the sound of her voice. At night, while Papa’s asleep, I sneak out of bed to listen to Mama’s greeting on our answering machine. “Tanpri kite bon ti nouvèl pou nou!” Please, leave us good news!
One night, I accidentally erase the greeting, and I can no longer hear Mama say those cheerful words that always make me feel so warm inside.
We have no good news.
For the last three months, Mama’s been at Sunshine Correctional, a prison for women without papers.
When I ask Papa, “What kind of papers does Mama need?” he says, “Papers that say she belongs in this country.”
“Can Mama have my papers?” I ask.
She can’t.
When I ask Papa, “When is Mama coming home?” he says, “You know, Saya, Mama loves you anpil, anpil, very, very much. She’d never stay away too long, if she could help it.”