Zombie was the nickname of a man who worked for my mother's construction crew in Port-au-Prince, Haiti.
Crushed rock is a vital part of concrete, which was used in foundations, floors, and roofs of her buildings.
When I was around five, we lived next to a ravine.
During the rainy seasons, water would flow off the surrounding mountains, washing down large quantities of rocks into these water channels.
My older brothers would climb down and harvest the rocks, stacking them into huge piles in our backyard.
My mother would then hire Zombie to turn the rocks into what we called gravel.
I used to watch Zombie in awe for hours, pulverizing those stones into small pieces.
With each blow, these rocks would yield their shapes, radiating fine dust into the air, while the echoes reverberated in the distance.
Zombie eventually developed a sinus infection which ate away at his nose.
If he came close to you, the stench was unbearable.
Apparently, there was no cure available to him at the time.
He probably couldn't afford it anyway.
I don't know what happened to Zombie.
I assume he died a painful death from this condition.
