Grann Brigitte is the mother of the Gede — wife of Baron Samedi, queen of the cemetery, guardian of the dead and of the women who tend them. She arrives in violet and black, a cigar in one hand and a cup of unsweetened coffee in the other, the fierce tenderness of a woman who has buried too many to lie about what burial costs.
She stands for feminine grief held with dignity, for the protection of the dying and especially of women in their dying, for the unsentimental love that keeps the names of the dead alive across generations. She is the patron of midwives, of nurses, of hospice workers, of mothers who bury children, of the women who wash and dress the bodies. She refuses the prettification of mourning and insists on its sacred work.
Carried across the water from Dahomey and the Kongo and overlaid in Haiti with the Catholic Saint Brigid of Ireland — the only white-skinned lwa in the Vodou pantheon, said to have arrived with Irish indentured servants in the colonial period. She watches over the cross at the entrance of every Haitian cemetery, the first cross planted in any new burial ground. To make a room for her is to agree that the dead are still your kin, that grief is a discipline, and that the women who tend the dying deserve a saint of their own.