Free Brush with Haiti by Kathleen A. Tobin

doctor or other credentialed specialist would test it in an elaborate, well-equipped lab, to confirm its anti-aging properties for just a commission or consulting fee. We would recommend the customer add the 62.4 ounce purified and enhanced spring water for rinsing, as the natural chemical reaction of the two combined could double or triple the anti-aging effects, as verified in laboratory tests. This would be a must-have on top of a must-have on top of a must-have. The driver turned with a jerk, trying to miss a sudden dip, and my head banged into the window next to me. My daydream came to an abrupt end. "Look," Fran said, pointing. I looked at the side of the road.
    A young boy, maybe six or seven-years-old at the most, was riding a bike much too big for him. He carefully maneuvered around puddles, carrying four or more empty plastic milk jugs in each hand without letting go of the handlebars. Perhaps the recent rain had presented a new source of drinking water. Or perhaps he was simply carrying out a daily chore. In any case, the chances of finding any clean water nearby seemed small. The spinning back tire had already splattered a thick trail of mud up his legs, the length of his back, and into his hair. As it dried, it became gradually lighter, the color of coffee with a heavy dose of cream. What I had pictured as three shades darker than the skin of my imaginary customers was suddenly three shades lighter than the skin of this young water bearer. The contrast of browns was striking.
    He rode past a house where a woman worked to push mud across the threshold of her home with a broom. Mud-soaked belongings rested on the patch of grass leading to the road. Her sandals did nothing to keep her feet protected, and the brown cascaded up her calves, growing lighter as it thinned and dried on her skin. After more miles of silence the isolation of the woman and the boy and the distance from the last village became more noticeable. Then we came upon the cooperative.
    We tried carefully to keep our shoes clean as we walked across a piece of wood positioned between the truck and the entrance. The sun was setting quickly. A woman who appeared to be a manager eagerly turned on a bare light bulb to combat the darkness. We wiped our feet the best we could as we entered. A rainbow of handcrafted items graced the walls, behind the artisans sitting shyly in folding chairs. I wondered how close by they lived and how difficult it must be for them to return home in the dark. As much as I was taken by their work, my eyes turned to their faces. We listened attentively as our guide described the process of production.
    "There has been some interest in distributing their goods in the U.S.," she noted, commenting on the need to teach the women what was actually more marketable there. Some discussion of the goods continued, as if they were things separate from the women sitting before us. Distinct. But I could almost see threads of light connecting the creations with the women. It is rare that we see creator and creation in one place at one time, and I wanted to see what had come from whom. There were similarities, bringing to mind a bit of mass production. Either one woman had produced many placemats, for example, with slight differences in decoration, or many women were taught to follow a pattern, producing a supply of each with her own special touches. And many of the items were completely unique.
    There were household objects, decorative and functional, similar to some fair trade pieces available in other regions of underdeveloped Latin America. The paintings and sculptures were beautiful. But I was drawn to the items that reflected the essentials of living. They provided a sense of connection that transcended borders, class divisions, and races. I decided on an apron made of bright pink, soft, cotton broadcloth with calico accents. It had a bib and straps, and was gathered at the waist, reminding me of a childhood pinafore once given to me by