Welcome Home
There’s something about water that moves me…deeply. I don’t mean the water that runs through the tap, or even the tears that trickle, pour, or are spat out from the sky. I mean the water of the sea. The hues of blue and green that partner with the sun to create a sight that quite literally leaves me speechless. A sight that sparkles and sometimes compels my eyes to close, to adjust, to re-position themselves in response to the beauty they are met with.
I think my love of the water was a gift from my grandma. She grew up by a river in a vibrant, flavourful, strong and fun land that, up until 2025, I had never visited but felt deeply connected to through her and my grandpa. When I had the privilege of being introduced to her, she no longer lived by that river but in Highbury and Islington instead. Her once youthful, almost jet black hair was white, no, it was silver - all over. It was strong and beautiful and I loved it. In many ways her hair reminded me of her - steady, stunning, soft…grandma dealt tenderly with me. She saw my heart and helping hands and sought to protect me.
My grandpa also protected his own, but what I remember the most is his joy. His blue rimmed eyes lit up when we were around - his grand babies. He told us stories and nursery rhymes, taught us how to play dominoes and took us on adventures with his club. You could not be around him without laughter falling out of your mouth. Grandps - my moniker for him - also taught me how to make dumplings and his rice and peas. In doing all the above he volunteered a part of himself, for us to treasure, steward, take care of and pass on. He stood tall, while grandma’s limited height meant that we all outgrew her in our early teens - likkle but tallawah has never been truer. The melanin in their skin and warm wrinkles in their hands and faces spoke of love, hard work and determination to succeed. They gave their children and grandchildren every good thing they had and more.
I still remember how the trees bowed above us as we drove to their flat. It was beautiful, to be in the concrete city, but to be met with reminders of God’s natural design. We would visit often, my mum and dad taking turns to traverse the London streets, doing very well to keep their sanity while other drivers seemed to leave theirs at home. Each time we arrived, we were met with the Jamaican sun in human form, accompanied by smells of sweet scallion, beautiful bell peppers, coconut cream, soft kidney beans, trustworthy thyme and succulent chicken or soft lamb that had been seasoned to perfection!
Love abounded.
Love remains.
In 2011 and in 2015 I was forced to say goodbye to my mum’s parents, my grandparents. First grandma, then grandpa. Being separated from a loved one through death feels surreal…for a long time. The absence of their voice in real-time, the inability to feel their embrace, to inhale their scent, to lie on their shoulder or lap takes a while to get used to. Get used to, I’m not sure if that’s even correct but words fail me. A sobering reality is that the more you love, the more goodbyes you have to say. Some goodbyes give you a chance to steady your heart, to reinforce your defences, to prepare your mind. Others completely blindside you, leaving you with an unquantifiable rip in the tapestry of who you are. Saying goodbye to Dad did the latter, but in golden, divine and heavenly thread, God sewed me back together and has kept me ever since. He always was and always will keep me.
There they are again, those hues of blue and green that partner with the sun to create a sight that quite literally leaves me speechless. This time I’m in Jamaica and the sun that I feel and the water that encircles my toes, my ankles, my thighs whispers welcome home. The salt water of the sea mingles with the salt water I let flow from within, as I allow the warmth of God’s sun and beauty of His creation to bring healing to me yet again.