{"id":188,"date":"2014-04-17T11:55:12","date_gmt":"2014-04-17T15:55:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.culturallycaribbean.com\/?p=188"},"modified":"2014-04-17T12:51:21","modified_gmt":"2014-04-17T16:51:21","slug":"a-homecoming-and-leaving","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.culturallycaribbean.com\/?p=188","title":{"rendered":"A Homecoming … and Leaving"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>Months of anticipation and\u00a0longing\u00a0were brought to an end\u00a0over a period of\u00a0ten days.\u00a0Ten wonderful days\u00a0that I was careful to savour\u00a0because of, and despite, the\u00a0swiftness of their passing.\u00a0And there was truly much to relish\u00a0on\u00a0my recent trip to Trinidad: family, food, music, friends,\u00a0warmth, and, of course, memories. Because there are, after all, memories that\u00a0lie dormant until triggered by a\u00a0particular shade of bougainvillea, or the\u00a0view of the setting sun from\u00a0a favourite, quiet spot.<\/p>\n

The night we arrived, I sighed and smiled as\u00a0my mother\u00a0drove us towards the house. The lights were on, warm and welcoming, a visual parallel to\u00a0the feelings of tenderness\u00a0that I\u00a0always experience\u00a0upon ‘coming home’. My eyes still\u00a0sought\u00a0the\u00a0pine tree that had, for most of my life, stood towering in\u00a0a corner of the front yard, an easy landmark,\u00a0but\u00a0which had begun to lean precariously and\u00a0was cut\u00a0down a few years ago. There were other, more recent\u00a0changes\u00a0as well,\u00a0updates that my mother has enjoyed making over\u00a0time, but the spirit of\u00a0the place –\u00a0its soul that\u00a0consistently elicits\u00a0a sigh and smile –\u00a0remained unaltered.<\/p>\n

This spirit\u00a0was evident, for example,\u00a0in the\u00a0ease with which\u00a0Littler B\u00a0expertly\u00a0navigated his new surroundings. He had an\u00a0air of belonging, of feeling right at home almost immediately, and his effortless comfort\u00a0turned to bliss when he\u00a0confirmed that there was no such thing as a child-proof cupboard in Grandmummy’s kitchen.\u00a0The spirit\u00a0was also there when Little L,\u00a0upon tasting the cerise fruit for the first time,\u00a0excitedly insisted that we pick all the ripe\u00a0ones\u00a0within reach\u00a0(three days in a row), bringing back memories of my\u00a0childhood zeal for plucking\u00a0the\u00a0little tangy-sweet\u00a0morsels,\u00a0Governor plums, oranges and\u00a0Julie mangoes that grew in\u00a0our yard. But perhaps\u00a0it\u00a0was most\u00a0apparent to others\u00a0on the Sunday before we left, when the house was\u00a0brimming with\u00a0cousins, aunts, uncles and friends – the joyous sounds of\u00a0music and laughter\u00a0flowing in and out of the breeze blocks, around the yard where children\u00a0romped, and\u00a0over\u00a0the\u00a0green galvanized roof.\u00a0Yes, the spirit of home was\u00a0indeed alive\u00a0and well.<\/p>\n

I felt\u00a0it\u00a0in the kitchen, where\u00a0my\u00a0father\u00a0used to\u00a0sit on a stool and peel his morning grapefruit. I felt it\u00a0when I looked at the white wrought iron chairs on the porch,\u00a0to which\u00a0he would\u00a0usher\u00a0those\u00a0persons who came seeking his legal counsel;\u00a0and, naturally, at the dining table\u00a0where\u00a0he, my mother, brother and I\u00a0would chat\u00a0and enjoy each others’ company on a Sunday – with the sliding doors open,\u00a0curtains\u00a0tied back, and the Commodores’ ‘Easy Like Sunday Morning’ playing in the background.\u00a0The spirit\u00a0was still there, everywhere,\u00a0although he no longer physically was. A spirit of\u00a0love, encouragement, patience\u00a0… and peace.<\/p>\n

I\u00a0therefore understood Little L’s tears\u00a0on the eleventh morning – the morning of our departure. I quietly shared them.\u00a0Holding her tightly, I absorbed\u00a0her inconsolable distress and added it to my own\u00a0heaviness of heart.\u00a0I\u00a0knew exactly what she was feeling.\u00a0She had\u00a0been to the beach and other exciting\u00a0places, tasted\u00a0different foods,\u00a0helped her grandmummy\u00a0water the plants, become reacquainted with cousins, and made new friends.\u00a0I, in turn,\u00a0had visited sites on the island\u00a0for the first time; enjoyed a night out with some of my oldest and dearest friends;\u00a0danced with abandon to soca; indulged in\u00a0Trinbagonian Christmas cuisine\u00a0in the middle of March; feasted on\u00a0bake and buljol,\u00a0crab and callalloo, curry duck, roti, doubles, corn soup… and the list went on.\u00a0I had seen, tasted and\u00a0lived<\/em> everything with an appreciation that was sharpened by my awareness of the\u00a0ever-approaching eleventh day. The eleventh day that had inevitably arrived.<\/p>\n

But although\u00a0delightful\u00a0moments and days\u00a0may pass,\u00a0imprints\u00a0of them do remain with us,\u00a0joining\u00a0the store of memories inextricably linked to the spirit of a place that makes us sigh and smile. So, on that eleventh morning, with\u00a0tears dried and\u00a0suitcases\u00a0closed,\u00a0we put the\u00a0previous\u00a0ten days in our\u00a0cache of treasures and began to shift our focus to the long day of travel ahead. We passed under the plaque\u00a0that hangs above the door to the car port,\u00a0and\u00a0the spirit of home whispered its familiar\u00a0words to my heart:\u00a0‘Peace to all who leave here’.<\/em>\u00a0\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n