By Carol R. Cardenes-Grimaldi
It is a pleasure to have the opportunity to come back home. It is always nice to experiment the same feelings. Once I open the door of the house, running in happiness. My heart can’t hide the excitement any more. It feels so good to be back there. I looked again at the street. It is real. I am backing home. I hold my breath trying to get in once all the fragrance of the flowers that embellish the garden. The same flowers, the ones that are welcoming me back, showing such a big diversity of colors, dancing in joy; they are the same that I planted several years ago. I still remember that time, that one friend and I, went together to choose different kind of flowers. She recommended me some azaleas, daisies, magnolias, burgundies, cayenne! We painted the ground with colors and odors. The soil was waiting for this. The lonely solitude that the land had before, no longer exists! The plants had reclaimed the place as their own and had made the house to look even better. How much I recreated my mind when I need calm just by looking at my flowers. It is nice to come back home. Coming back home means that I will have plenty company. My parents are here, they stand like a cedar tree. Looking at us, we are the children, the ones that represent the fruit of their collection. I can feel the weight that years of dedication, effort and love, took for my parents to raise us. Now they look proudly at my own children, their descendant. This will be the generation that will continue spreading the name and the family’s tradition. This new generation will bring together a new hope, a new meaning and a new joy to my parent’s life.
I am coming back home. I smell the Ocean. Its waves sing a new song to me! The rays of the sun are caressing me as a sweet remember that what I am living is real. I am sweating, but I like this kind of sweating. I just love the peaceful view of the sea. The heat and the warmth that the tropical sun brings to my heart are incalculable. I run again like a child. I hear my sisters and brother laughing. I feel the happy breeze, refreshing my face and my soul. Merry memories rushed through my mind. I feel comfort and peace. I want to see what is inside the house. I need to see the changes; I want to smell the wood. The fine furniture that my father once built with his own hands is still part of the house. This handmade furniture is a testimony of many years of hard work and dedication. My father’s hand! They had suffered the sacrifice that implies to raise a big family of seven. They had succeeded the work of a dedicated carpenter. His hands had suffered many accidents. We can barely spot the half finger that is missing in his left hand. He was so humbled when that accident happened. He has so much strength and serenity in his life. He just said that day: “Why are you all crying about? I am another carpenter, without one finger. These kinds of accidents always happen.” My father’s hands are part of his history of labor and sacrifice. His hands are part of our house. We can see his prints in every wood’s work around us. I am coming back home. I can fill my lungs with the perfumed fragrance of delicates cedar, mahogany and pine.
I am inside the house. My sister is cooking. There is a mixed smell of fresh beans, aromatic coffee, and sweet potatoes, which fills the house. The profound smell attracted me. I can feel the watery taste in my mouth of the combination of rice and beans and a sauced chicken. I placed myself as an infant waiting in this same room. Surrounded by my notebooks and pencils, while doing homework and waiting impatiently for dinner to be served. This reminder could be because there is nothing better than homemade food. I remember how my mother used to spend hours in the kitchen to come over with these delicious plates: salcocho, the traditional mashed plantains, exquisite seasoned goat meat. Roasted chicken and all kind of fruit dessert: A smooth Guava preserve, crunchiest coconut candies, sweet oranges or exquisite pineapple cake. I still remember the delicious taste in my mouth. I also remember the feeling of satisfaction that comes after a good meal. Now that years had passed by, my own children have the opportunity to come back home with me. They have now their moment to live what I used to do as a child. My children can run free in the streets, climb trees with joy and experiment the fragrance of the colorful flowers that embellish the view of the garden, moreover they can eat the fruit. The same sweetest fruits that fulfill their curious appetite while eating them. Granolas, sweet guavas, aromatic mangoes, messy cherries, sour lemons. When we comeback home, that means that my children will experiment the joyfully view of colorful butterfly dancing, and they will have the chance to pick the timid flowers that grow in the yard. They will have the opportunity to built sand castles and play in the sea.
When we are coming back home, that means that my children will benefit of the same natural stimulus that I grow with as a child.
My kids will be able to see by their own eyes all the beauty that the tropical fauna and flora offer. We will hear all together the musical orchestra.
We will hear hundreds of birds singing in a coordinated pace. We are going to hear the same birds, which used to sing early in the morning and late at night when shadows and the moon come over to cover the duty that the sun had left vacant. The romantic presence of the moon over the hills brings magic over. Now we can feel the silence. The birds are tired and went to sleep. My children are ready to hear some stories, the moon balance her round being around the skies watching the shining stars running. It is good to come back home. I curled myself, snuggling together, to avoid the chill.
We will hear hundreds of birds singing in a coordinated pace. We are going to hear the same birds, which used to sing early in the morning and late at night when shadows and the moon come over to cover the duty that the sun had left vacant. The romantic presence of the moon over the hills brings magic over. Now we can feel the silence. The birds are tired and went to sleep. My children are ready to hear some stories, the moon balance her round being around the skies watching the shining stars running. It is good to come back home. I curled myself, snuggling together, to avoid the chill.
My children are laughing, pointing to the trees. A solitaire cat makes his way to the top, a dissipate bird fly fast, escaping. The perfume of the flowers fills the night. I am backing home. Part of my life has been written here. I heard the sound of the merchants.
I heard the cocks bragging with their morning alarm, when it is still dawn. I taste the fresh cooked eggs with smashed plantains. I watch my children enjoying the company of news friends and tasting and feeling the same emotions that I have as a child. I am coming back home. I feel so much joy!
I hope that one day my children will write their own sharing memories.
