to the one who was born

Dad told me you were fussy.

You didn't cry when you first came into the world. You were only fussy. But your eyes were wide open, absorbing all that was around you. You were wondering, "Where the hell am I? What is this place?" At least, that's what Dad told me.

But did you wonder? Could you wonder? Could you understand the greatness of that moment? The moment when you opened your eyes for the first time? The moment when your world was no longer a blind darkness, but the artificial light beaming down on you, and the loud chatter of the doctors and nurses? The sights and sounds? The sun running behind his sister, the moon, to see your face? The joyous tension and the heavy delight all your family bore as your mother labored for you?

Maybe you did understand, in your own way.

There are different stories about your name. Dad says you were named after a student of his who he was fond of; I don't remember what Mom's explanation was. I like to believe Dad's story -- you grew up to be a good student. You learned to read two years after today, and you passed each exam with flying colors. You were so quick to learn. Everyone was proud of you.

Everyone was always proud of you.

You spent your childhood a few hundred kilometers away, in Manchester. You'll know two homes: the one your grandparents knew when they raised your mother, aunts and uncles; and the one your grandmother lived in afterwards to raise you. You relied on that blessed old woman for your survival -- your cornmeal porridge in the morning sweetened with condensed milk, the curried goat and brown rice that nourished your bones, and the cup of Milo you couldn't sleep without at night. You'd love the Julie mango, the sweetest fruit of the Jamaican harvest. You'd love her fried chicken and her stew, and you'd almost die for her pig's tail on Sundays.

Everyone called you your grandmother's handbag. She never went anywhere without you. You were to be protected at all costs, and she wouldn't be moved if she thought keeping you away from something was the best decision for you. She was the Blue Mountain range, shielding her valleys from the hot sun.

Your mother and your father didn't last long together. Your mother was in America for as long as I could remember, and your father was...well, all over the place, really. You loved them dearly, and they loved you too. They didn't have enough money to visit you all the time, but they did their best.

Don't worry. You will see them again.

Mom's decided to return home, to the memories and the land of her birth. She almost took me with her! I had to tell Dad. Luckily, he found something for me, and I'll be spending more time with him. That makes me happy.

I wish you a safe travel home.

the one who lives now