My grandmother begins the story as she always does, with the older children gathered in her lap and the youngest ones fastened to her hip.
“This is the story,” she drawls, Creole accent thick in her breathy voice, “of our great ancestors.”
“Not again!” an older child pleads, defeat edging in his shrill voice.
“Quiet, chéri,” my grandmother replies in that lovingly stern tone I’ve come to know far too well.
“Our ancestors,” my grandmother begins, scanning the children’s faces, “gave our people a great gift.”
The younger children watch her intently, clinging to every sugar-spun word. The older children sit cross-legged with their chins propped up on their hands.
“Now listen closely,” the old woman pauses as she cups her wrinkled hands around an ear. “Can’t you hear them?”
Some children nod their little heads while other shake them worriedly.
“The spirits are always watching us, protecting us,” she continues, emphasizing her strong Creole “t’s” and drawn-out “o’s.”
I know how the end of the story goes: the gift of storytelling was passed down for centuries. One day, the responsibility will fall from our elders to us.
My grandmother finishes the story with a nostalgic smile, and all the children cry for more.
“Not tonight, little ones. Now hurry upstairs before Papa Legba comes for you!”
The children scramble up the stairs, tripping over limbs.
She chuckles a hearty sound, the boisterous laugh echoing all throughout the house. The laughing of the spirits echo hers in reply.