Ashton Cynthia Clarke

Remember Where I Am From

 

I am from little me peering down a dark hallway with locked doors . . . but do I truly remember that or was it a dream?

I am from coarse, sandy soil, blue mountains, and skies redolent with stringy mango and hibiscus . . . one generation removed.

I am from great-great grandmother remembered only as “the white lady Bodden” and her daughter whose name is unknown, whose daughter was Maud, whose daughter was my mother.

I am from aunts’ kitchens where smells of curry, oxtails, and coconut rice hung heavy in the air. And remember that rum-laced sweet red syrup imported from back home.

I am from women who pressed their long hair and twirled in full skirts painted island colors of orange, red, and green as calypso and ska blared from 45s twirling on the record-changer.

I am from being sent to my room when I showed off my drawing of a naked woman. Remember? She was in profile and without a nose.

I am from a mommy who shopped to surround herself with beauty and ease the loneliness unleashed by a bitter and detached spouse.

I am from teen me telling him “I love you” too soon and beginning a dark pattern that’s become a nightmare.