Sun drifting to down under in shades o’ rainy-gray. Normally she leave here in layers of pink…no bright gashes of crimson and slashes of orange…though one or two lucky evenings in the year we see she flashing out with crimson and gold.
Music playing - castanet clicking one two, one two between steel pan tapping low with soft guitar.
This evening the ol’ house feel melancholic.
But oh, stupid me, houses can’t feel sad. Or dull.
Houses can’t feel. Houses can’t miss people.
Brother gone back to England on Saturday, now is just me and me ma again.
This afternoon, just before the sun set, we sit in the verandah, me and me ma, reminiscing about all them things brother, son, tell we.
Had me rolling with laugh on the floor one night, fulling up we ears with England experiences. I hoot ‘til me back and belly hurt. He outrageous, irreverent, got a sharp way o’ reading people’s character. Very proper English boss tell he that in all the thirty years she work in that office she never meet anybody as mad as he.
Now the house feel dull. Damn, stupid house, always brooding after siblings visit and leave.
I don’t think people here recover yet from the splintering of families, from massive migration. We tear away from old lands to here, from here to new lands, and them tears still burning.
“Long ago,” my mother say in the verandah this afternoon, “When people just start to migrate, busloads o’ families and friends used to go to the airport to say ‘bye to the one leaving. They used to carry drum, accordion, pots o’ food…travelling used to take hours then. They play music and sing all the way to the airport. But when they say ‘bye, if you hear holler. Them mothers, grandmothers and sisters, even fathers, used to wail. They didn’t know when they gon see the son or daughter again.”
Well, we ain’t wail on Saturday gone, we know we seeing family again, times change, planes fly faster.
I just wish this house would stop feeling so damn melancholic today.
But oh stupid me, houses don't feel.