visits...

One summer, we left the mountains behind to visit my mother’s home. There we found ourselves welcomed by the warmth of my grandmother’s embrace and the love that shone in my grandfather’s eyes. Was it here that we truly belonged?

That memory is filled with the sound of the surf, the slap of waves on black rock, the scent of salt in the air and the sun that shone with brilliance that I have never seen anywhere else in the world. In the photographs, yellow with age, you cannot hear the sound of our laughter. It is impossible to translate into words the magic of those days and the wonder of being caught up in that joyous conglomeration of aunts and uncles, cousins and all the adopted extensions of family.

My dreams are haunted by the sound of the waves rolling relentlessly, by the briny scent of canvas, the feel of the white foam splashing against my skin, and the sticky, salty tang of the deep, deep sea.

That summer our dreams were filled with the fragrance of Ilang-ilang and the nights were filled with the music of our laughter, our shudders, our shrill cries of terror and ecstasy. We were children and all thought of books and learning, was swept away in the sheer joy of being, for just today.

In the distant past, my mother's family lies entrenched in the golden aura that surrounds all things magical.

Summer came and went. Time came to pack our bags and kiss our cousins, farewell. “Farewell,” we cried.

“Farewell.” We threw our wild kisses to the wind, and turned as the boat sounded its horn. We turned our faces toward the North, to where the mountains stood, steadfast and sure, as memory.