We began our journey on Dundonald Street, Port of Spain, Trinidad. We lived in the house of MacDonald Thomas, Alex’s grandfather. We had our first child there and washed his diapers on a juking board at the back sink, until we were seduced by disposable nappies. On a sleek black record player we listened to reggae and jazz, accompanied by rain on the galvanized roof. The wooden floorboards creaked reassuringly. The paved yard was painted dark red. The front room was the old abandoned grocery shop. But the living room was cosy and small, with two old wooden chairs and yellow wooden walls.
Dark wooden chair and wooden table,
An empty bottle and empty glass,
Incense, books and broken phone
Twilight sneaking,
Peeking through open window
To see yellow walls
wooden and warm, wrapped in dying sunlight.
To see dancing smoke
curling on the air,
folding on itself,
twirling on and on
to nought, to nil, to
night striding in.
Drawling music,
Striding with the night,
Arm in arm with the air
– grey and blue and white –
Gliding over wooden chair and wooden table.
Settling in the empty room, heavy, almost silent.
Two steps to step to black table,
through faded light,
To step to wooden chair,
To sit with a heavy sigh.
Cold crystals ride the wind;
defeated daylight.
Plop
Plop
Rain again.
Again Rain.
Still night,
Still wind,
Still rain on shaking roof.
Dim glow, yellow and blue,
Candle standing in ceramic shoe.
Ceramic shoe that she make.
Silence breathing,
Breathing.
Room gently spinning,
Remembering dancing,
dancing with the buzzing in his head.
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