Going Kendel Hippolyte (bio) Along the Sunday morning road, west coast, uphill from Canaries to Soufriere, my son asks from the backseat:"Daddy, where are we?" And, reaching to pluck a name and finding none, i slip, falling into a crevasse, the meaning of the question, the meaning of my not having an answer, rushing upward past me as i clutch at blurred-green-bush-brown-rock, not grasping anything. Approaching Soufriere, i wonder: Suppose i had been able to say "Belvedere" or "Bouton" or – what then? He'd have said "Oh" and then most probably "How far is it to Soufriere?" In the intuitive logic of a child, where you are going tells you where you are. i think of answers others might have given to his question: "We're in an area of prime real estate." "Da is where my grandfather planted tangerines." "The Kalinago had a settlement here three hundred years ago." True. But in his logic, where are we? Entering town, an old man, sitting in his doorway as we drive past, chewing meditatively, shifts the question to another corner of his mouth; a lanky youth, a black branch snapped in a sudden wind, just up ahead, gusting across the narrow street, scuds closer, the question a belligerent rasp of sandals on hot asphalt. If my son asked now "Where are we?", i'd say:"In Soufriere, passing the church." Sunday morning, the scent of Vaseline and talcum powder, an incense offering; children, their foreheads shining, delicate dark collarbones fragrantly dusted white, always; boys awkward in new shoes, long-sleeved shirts, girls dressed like birthday cakes; the glistening of pink and yellow taffeta rustling in Sunday light around the church. On the level grey stretch of road now before The Still, i can almost forget the sudden vertiginous mindfall that my son's question had dislodged me into. Then at the last curve – not quite a corner, too gentle – we pass an elderly lady, someone of my mother's age, waiting at the road's edge for a van. We pass so close that i could touch her – though, not really. She is unreachable. In the peach organdie and poplin, lace-trimmed, scallop-collared fussy graciousness of her church dress, [End Page 102] hand-millinered hat, white purse, white block-heeled shoes, gold earrings and brooch to match, she is standing in another time. She is standing in the middle of the last century of the old millennium in Saint Lucia, when the mass was still intoned in Latin and all the priests spoke French. She is waiting to go to church. But, in truth, in this moment held above us like a communion wafer, the church, the square, the streets, the town are waiting, in a kind of offertory, for her. When she enters the church, all will settle into place and know where they are. She is going, leaving me the now augmented burden of my young son's question. When she goes, she will take the green curve of the roadside with her, the "Bonjou, tout moun" as she enters the van, the Sunday morning light and before we know it, like an unanswered question, night will come. Kendel Hippolyte Kendel Hippolyte, who was born in St. Lucia, is a poet, playwright, and theater director. He is author of four books of poetry, the most recent being Birthright (1997); and editor of Confluence: Nine St. Lucian Poets (1988) and So Much Poetry in We People (1990). He teaches at Sir Arthur Lewis Community College in St. Lucia. Copyright © 2005 Charles H. Rowell