As my plane flew over Cuba, bound for Jamaica, I began to feel the pull of a long ago home, one that remembered me more than I could remember it. I landed on over 4,000 square miles of fragile paradise, not knowing what to expect. But I was on the soil of my first home.
I am now sitting on the veranda of a quaint hotel overlooking the ocean. A child splashes about in the pool below. I wondered why he was not brought to the sand to feel the glorious ocean around his tiny body. We each make our choices and hope that we make them well. I chose to be here and will later create the sand memory for the child. I will let the sand move between my toes and the water envelope me as I remember what was gained and lost, remembered and almost forgotten. I will be the child.
I will let this expansive view humble me and remind me of my fragility. I can only smile and fall in love again. Jamaica is a wonder to behold–colonized and monetized, still, something of the old world remains.
words from a tiny phone