I was born and raised in an island. A tiny island in the Caribbean, filled with songs, heat, and humor. The breeze carries a salty flavor that sticks to your skin on humid days. A flavor that lingers on your tongue after swiftly brushing your lips in particularly humid days. The breeze, a soft and timid carrier of all kinds of aromas: freshly ground coffee, coconut oil, pineapple juice, cinnamon, and sea.
My island loves music, loves rhythm, loves percussion. It dances to the sound of drums as if it's possessed by african gods. Marching its way through the pebbled streets of the old city, it shouts for joy and celebration. For all the good and the bad.
I yearn for my island. I miss the people, their smiles and faces. The familiarity of everything, the streets I grew in, the songs on the radio, singing out loud while driving my old car, my dog, my short pants, my flip flops, the island state of mind, watching the coast fade away on my rear view mirror, the long days at the beach, eating street foods and a beer.
Those are the things I miss.