The blue green hills. The warm damp air, not humid exactly, but rather soft and enfolding, making joints supple, hearts light.
The schoolchildren in the early morning, crisp in their school uniforms, khakis and ties for the boys, tunics and white blouses for the girls, waiting at bus stops along the main roads for the day to start.
The smell of the place. Salty. Green. The houses I remember, the ones I dreamed in, the shops with shutters in bright colors, hand painted signs.
The sea sounds along the airport road, the cars careening, never colliding, the new mall where the supermarket used to be, my old school building.
My mother, peering down the hallway excitedly, a tiny stooped figure with guileless anticipation, waiting for the first glimpse of me.
My niece and nephew, 10 and 8, faces fresh as the day, in bright green shirts and blue shorts, sitting straight backed at the breakfast table, greeting me politely, even formally, yet the smile in my nephew's eyes says he's ready to play.
My brother stirring condensed milk into bold black coffee. Ackee and saltfish warming. My mother's thin arms reaching up to surround me.
The place where one is made will always be home.
How could I have forgotten?