calm confusion

My maternal grandmother had always been a special woman. Not special in that she went out of her way to save the world, or got through university and became an actuary, but special in a way that made her immortal to her children and grand children. The morning she died, I can remember very clearly, but I choose not too. And as the years go by, I find myself tucking the memories of her in the dusty back closets of my mind, along with my red Coca Cola sneakers and hairy eyebrows. I never bring her out to dust off and look at, I don't have the right... She stood over the fiery stove, steam circling her cloth cover head, with her back to us. We could hear very clearly what she was saying, even though she wasn't shouting... that loudly. The smells that seeped into the old walls of the kitchen, bounced off and fell snugly onto our clothes and skin was something we had learnt long ago to treasure. Nothing smelt like perfection like her cooking. With her tiny back hunched over the tahw...

It was her feet that bothered her the most. No matter how much she scrubbed, soaked or soap, she was never able to completely removed all traces of dirt from her soles and toes. It was never like this before. She remembers so vividly her home, with white shutters on the windows, hard wood floors that creaked as her Grandmother ambled along, her bed with the softest mattress and sheets washed in rose water. She remembered everything, as if the reality of her life now was not strong enough to overshadow her past. Yet she knew it was. Drawing her knees up to her chest, her arms encircle her legs in silent protection. She rests her head on her knees and closes her eyes. Outside she hears footsteps, pacing up and down, sometimes hurried and anxious, sometimes slow and steady. Beyond that she did not know want existed, she could only imagine. In her day dreams she sees rolling hills, banana trees swaying wordlessly in the breeze. She imagines a wood hut lots between two mango trees, with a ...

"Exodus... movement of jah people..." As the music filled my eardrums at a rate of 2000 decibels and sing softly to myself, swaying my head every so slightly, ensuring I don't suddenly head butt the fat pasty white man sitting next to me sweating in his suit and scarf. My mornings have changed so much. From getting up at 4 30 am and rushing out the house to beat the traffic heading in to Port of Spain, wondering if I would catch a glimpse of the stray horse galloping along the roadside at Caroni fly over...to rolling out of bed at 5 30 am and moseying along to my bus stop for 7. With my ipod plugged in and take a seat at the back of the bus, after weeks of mishaps at the front, and settle in for an hour long ride to work. The music sets my mood and my daydreams. Soca when I am missing home, Rock when I have a hard day ahead, Rosemary Clooney when I want to drift off into la la land. Sometimes I feel like I am living someone else's life. I hold on tightly to bits...

It was orange and white and scared all over, with a left side full of rusty holes and a right side full of more. Neighbourhood kids ( that's me, my sister and all our cousins) would run to hide under the mango tree or behind the tank, lie flat and wait. We would hear his steps coming down the stairs, listen for when he went into the bathroom to put his pants on, comb his moustache while crunching low in the shape of a backward C so he could see his head in the mirror and then swagger out the door. With something that sounded like humming, mostly like a 1968 Indian Move tune, he would start the van. The orange and white Patrol. One try, followed by a series of stueps and then..."Kerrie!" "Yes, Daddy??," a sound from under de tank. "Bring some water fer me to put in de van." "Oh god!. " Stueps , duh oh god me yuh hear!" "But Daddy!" "Duh but daddy me you hear!" then a whispered..."This blasted shit..." ...

I see my stop up ahead, yet I still begin to panic. Like the emotionally charged, overly paranoid person with unfounded aggressive tendencies that I am, I panic like a lunatic. There is no sighing with relief, no relaxing of muscles, no calmness knowing I will almost be home. There is only panic, for lord knows what reason. After 6 months I still can't figure it out. I sometimes convince myself it is just the remnants of a life living in a country where you are in constant mortal danger. Or maybe it is the anticipation of the cold gust of wind that smacks me in the face as I step off the bus. But generally, it is irrational panic, set on by the need to run away. I have yet to fall in love with Sydney. I can say all the nice things, starting with the better standard of living and the great quality of life Australians are exposed too. I can talk about the fantastic feeling of being able to get up on a Sunday morning and walk a few steps to have breakfast at a cafe with the quaint atm...

It always smelled like wet grass and charred wood. We would sit on the banister of our front porch and look out across the fields onto the woods that lay beyond. If we listen carefully, the sound of chirping birds we can never distinguish would fill our ears. "Those birds come from Venezuela yuh know." We would nod in awe and complete belief. Sunday mornings never failed us. We would wake up to the incessant sound of a couple yelling at each other about the most important things..." Why you leave that cup there! Take offf de TV!" Slowly, we would make our way down the stairs, peep past the grilled gate onto the kitchen to see which of them was making breakfast. He would look up and smile and we would know it was safe to come all the way down. In pajamas we would stay, all day, from the couch to the kitchen to the couch again. Until around 3pm when we would be suddenly stripped of our complacency and dropped head first into the reality of the next day. " Ally...

It is an indescribable feeling, when you finally realise you have grown up. It doesn't come with a letter telling you "congratulations you are now able to pluck your nose hairs every morning or it's time to buy maternity bras to replace your sexy lacy ones." If it did I would blasted smack the writer with my maternity bra anyway... Moving on...I didn't realise almost 30 would feel like this. I can still remember being five years old and rubbing my snot on my cousin while she was sleeping. But almost 30 feels a lot better. It is like end of a long week when you know you have great plans for the weekend..a feeling of total contentment. Maybe this sudden urge to play violins and sniff flowers comes from being married recently, or maybe I finally licked too much Evo Stick. Either way, I am happy to report that I don't mind being almost 30. Even if I see my fingers turning into prunes when there is clearly no sign of water around. Even when my knees make sudden c...