The warmness of sea salt tingles as I exit Air Canada on a Saturday afternoon. But the scent that was usually enough seemed strange – although not totally unfamiliar. Bounding down the steep, narrow metal steps, I smiled at the thought of home: beaches and fishcakes and beer and Crop-Over. And sex and fun and genuine laughter.
The squeals of Antoine and Antonique greeted me from what seemed like miles away. The broad smiles of my nephew and niece poked through the window of my sister’s dirty white Toyota.
Cheers of “hello auntie, we missed you!” were followed quickly by queries of presents and chocolate. Later that night, my closest friends and I caught up on our sketchy love lives over grilled fish in one of my favourite spots on the south coast, not too far from my grandparents’ home.
It was good to be back – although the circumstances were less than favourable.
Frantic message sent by worried family members revealed that our grandfather was preparing for the worst. Stage three liver cancer was the latest diagnosis. At 77, he was less than willing to fight.
“You should come home soon,” they advised, “never know when you will get this chance again.”
I discarded summer plans of Toronto Pride and Caribana and instead bought a one-way ticket home. Home was what I thought I needed: men who would fuck me without fetishisation, temperatures that would allow me to shed layers upon layers of scarves, hats, boots and jackets; and an ease of living that only comes when you are home, even though not entirely on your own.
2 Comments
So well describing the feeling of leaving and coming home again. I enjoyed reading this. Thank you.
Johanna
Super