Early morning walk. Opi, our black and white beautiful 9 year old pup. Ecstatic. A walk. A walk. A walk. Clatter, clatter, clatter. Spring onto tin roof garage. Leap to road. Turn right .We off. Mr. Locket in doorway, “Morning. Morning. Morning” Sky crisp and clean. Faint mauve blues. Chorus of birds. A distinct calling. I am carried north to childhood. Dad with corona in hand talking to a cardinal. And here he is in Grenada. Eyes flood. I wonder if grief will catch me today. Passing Ms. Gill but Ms. Gill gone. ‘Morning’ to her son washing his car. The soft coo of a dove from somewhere in the half built house, abandoned and swallowed by vine. Memory. Hanging out with two beautiful strong occupants of the old house. One friend hiding from an abusive boyfriend, the other discovered lump under her arm. “Want to see?” She asks. And then, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry,” softly, “Don’t worry.” She die within the year. I wonder now what happened to the other transient friend hiding from her man. She’d swing baby maya into the air and they’d both squeal with delight.
Passing Ms. Winnie’s house, no sign of her on the verandah. A tan and white dog prancing towards Opi. I hear a woman cussing a man, “Ungrateful mother cunt not even a Colgate or panty or roll on.” I hear a clap clap clap from behind. My neighbor clapping me to attention. We catch up on the side of the road. I’m in awe of how she nurses her son back from a violent encounter landing him in hospital and the other man in jail. She say she going to bundle up rosemary, picka salt, and lime so I can soak my sore heel. I land back home. Opi tripping up stairs. Me behind.