Saturday Morning Routines**

The familiar smell of wood smoke slowly filled my bedroom, wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. Through my window, I caught sight of the warm, flickering lights from the flambeau, casting dancing shadows on the walls. It was in that moment that I knew it was time to leave the warmth of my bed. The deep, gravelly voice of old man Sealy drifted up to me as he directed his right-hand man to place another log on the fire, ensuring it remained a blazing beacon of warmth.

With a sense of purpose, I slipped into my trusty rubber rain boots, the ones I always wore for early morning adventures, and made my way toward the barn. The soft light of dawn was just beginning to break, illuminating the world in gentle hues of pink and gold.

As I approached, I heard Pappy’s voice calling out, “Hey there, small point! Where do you think you’re going? You should be back in bed!”

But I was determined. I wanted to witness the ritual of pigs being slaughtered, an experience that held both fascination and a sense of solemnity for me. Each Saturday morning, old man Sealy would carry out this age-old tradition on my granddad’s farm. It was a process that ensured the villagers had access to fresh meat—pork, beef, chicken, and lamb—straight from the heart of the countryside.

Pappy had instilled in me a sense of purpose when he often said, "Do not handicap the children by making their lives easy." His words echoed in my mind as I made my way to the pig pens. I felt a mix of trepidation and excitement as I approached, ready to observe the harsh realities of farm life.

As I stood there, I watched the pigs squirm and squeal violently, their cries filled with panic as they sensed what was coming. The lambs trembled nearby, their fearful eyes darting around as they desperately struggled against their fate.

As a young child, I had always understood that these animals were raised to become food. Yet, with the passage of time and a deeper understanding of life and death, I now look back on those mornings with a blend of nostalgia and sadness. Despite the grim circumstances,
I found joy in the camaraderie of those moments, particularly while grilling meat on a stick alongside the village butcher, surrounded by laughter and stories of days gone by.

These vivid childhood memories of the slaughterhouse remain with me, serving as a poignant reminder of the cycle of life and its complexities. What stories do you hold from your own childhood experiences?

A list of tasks to accomplish before I embrace love again:

I envision my mind wandering through expansive fields where patches of grass lie brown. A single wildflower stands out among the scattered pebbles beneath my feet. Memories linger, taunting me alongside the bare trees with their bent trunks. A cool breeze brushes against my face; the once reliable umbrella tree is gone, leaving me exposed to the sun's relentless rays. I squint against the brightness.

It's time to decide: Will I dwell on the ghosts of my past, or will I focus on the warmth of the sun shining down? I have a clear list of goals to achieve before I open my heart to love again. I've put the pain behind me—it's my choice to lower the drawbridge or keep the enemy at bay.

When I fall in love again, I will be happier than ever before. I've buried those painful memories beneath the bare umbrella trees, and I refuse to let them control my future. I reflect on past loves that took me for granted. Should I forgive them? Or should I reject their memories altogether?

My tears will become the moisturizer that nurtures my spirit as I dig deeper into the fertile soil of my thoughts. I will honor each name with my tears and finally put those chapters to rest.

The Wicket-Keeper


Today, I learned that a lover I once cherished has passed away. Just yesterday, he was alive, and I never imagined I would feel this way about him. It’s strange how I rarely think about the rain unless it floods my drains, my driveway, or my beloved rose garden, or dampens my happy mood. Yet, here I am, grappling with a deep sadness over his death.

The tender moments we shared will always be etched in my memory, even amidst the ups and downs that relationships bring. Our past was filled with challenges, perhaps I was mistaken, or maybe he was right. But tonight, I find myself reflecting on the love we had. He was my old lover, the wicketkeeper, someone I held dear in my heart, now a distant memory that I will always carry with me.

Coral and Limestone**

You can take the country out of me, but the essence of acid lime runs through my veins like an indelible mark of my heritage. Growing up on the island was a unique blessing, where the roots of kinship ran deep and everyone seemed connected by an invisible thread. It was a place where every child knew everyone else's name, and my grandmother, affectionately called Nana, was a beloved matriarch to every little boy and girl in our neighborhood.

As barefoot rats, we wandered freely, our skin kissed by the sun and our laughter echoing through the verdant fields. Parenting in those days was tough love; it wasn’t so much about sparing the rod and spoiling the child, but more about corrections delivered through gentle slaps and back slaps that reminded us of the importance of respect and discipline. Misbehaving was never condoned, and there were no rewards for bad behavior back then.

What I treasure most are the sun-drenched afternoons spent playing outside—running wild amid the soft, prickly grass, chasing vibrant rainbow butterflies fluttering in the warm breeze until the aroma of dinner wafted through the air, summoning us home. I recall the bright sunshine juxtaposed against weeks of refreshing rain, our small island alive with the sounds of nature and the scent of the earth after a downpour. The sense of community was palpable; even the less fortunate neighbors always looked out for one another, embodying a spirit of care that resonated deeply.

There was a peculiar taste to the ground beneath my feet—as if it were infused with lime. I can still picture my cousin, unabashed, munching on chunks of dirt, much to Nana's dismay. Each time, she'd scold him, stressing the importance of clean habits. Yet, every other weekend, we endured our little rituals of castor oil or cod-liver oil, doses that made our bodies shiver with discomfort. Nana called it “cleansing our little souls” and claimed it would build strong bones and teeth, instilling in us the resilience we needed.

Our island was a paradise of coral and limestone, dotted with endless stretches of sugarcane fields that sweetened the air with their fragrance. The tropical rainy season was a vibrant tapestry of life, enriched by resources like petroleum, fish, and natural gas that thrived in our warm climate. What more could any child ask for, other than the simple joys of happiness and safety?

Reflecting on those days, I am enveloped in warm memories of the tender island winds that danced over the hills during breezy afternoons. How could I not give back to this land that shaped my very being?

My heart will forever find its home on the coral and limestone earth,
where the pride and industrious spirit of our little island stand as enduring symbols of our identity. Motto

He Choose to Grow Weak

Could you help me understand the complexities of our actions? When joy fills our hearts, we radiate positivity, but when sadness washes over us, it feels like an ache that permeates our very being (Proverb 17:22).

How can we support you if we remain in the dark about your feelings? You often bury your emotions deep within, creating a pressure cooker of unresolved thoughts and pain. In those shadows, you find yourself hiding away, tears spilling down your cheeks. Why did you choose to stay trapped in that desolate, lonely space? Remember, reaching out for help is not a sign of failure; it is a brave step toward healing.

Life resembles a resilient tree, swaying gracefully when the winds are gentle, yet vulnerable when fierce gusts challenge its strength. Why did you hesitate to step into the light from that somber, solitary existence? Like a tall, proud tree that can snap under overwhelming force, you, too, risk breaking under the weight of isolation.

Recognize that asking for help isn’t a trick or a sign of weakness. Carrying the burden alone is a choice that ultimately leads to a gradual decline in strength. Once again, you may feel like a small child, uncertain and timid. You declare, “Mommy, I am a big boy now. I can do everything by myself.” But in that misguided belief, darkness thickens, and the innocent are caught in the turmoil of your struggle.

That Toothpick was like an emoji

What became of the elderly man who habitually lingered outside the pub, a toothpick perpetually perched between his lips?
I often pondered the significance of that toothpick—it seemed to serve as a silent emblem, a mysterious token of his unspoken thoughts.

As children, we absorb the world around us, processing our myriad experiences as we grow. When we reach adulthood, we find ourselves striving to unravel the complexities of those early moments.

I’ve always been captivated by the habits of grandmothers, particularly the way many would discreetly tuck their money beneath the layers of their skirts. I can still picture her, clutching her cherished apron, its fabric soft and faded, evidence of countless meals prepared with love. Even when we navigated the lively streets of the city, that apron was her unwavering companion.

Now, reflecting on those customs I once found peculiar, I recognize how the toothpick and the hidden money represented their ways of coping with life’s myriad challenges. The old man who so often graced the pub’s entrance has since passed, joining countless others who have left us. We gathered to honor their lives, sharing fond memories and kind words at their funerals.

Yet for me, the echoes of their lifestyles continue to resonate, capturing fleeting moments of nostalgia that refuse to fade away.

Central Park radiates beauty when you’re in love. It transforms into a slice of heaven, where every moment feels like a poet's dream. Imagine harps playing softly and golden crowns illuminating a blissful paradise. As twilight falls, the air is electric with romance; lovers' dreams ignite with every spark.

Experience the enchantment of Central Park, where the artistic and poetic collide in a stunning display. Towering trees and the skyline offer a backdrop that creates a magical atmosphere—truly a gateway to paradise. This space embodies the dreams of poets, filled with vibrant crystals, rubies, diamonds, sapphires, and pearls—or simply a place to relax among nature’s weeds. It’s where love stories unfold.

Colorful hot air balloons drift gracefully above, and the sounds of Bollywood fill the air, creating an enchanting ambiance that continues long after dark.
Come, and let your heart feel the magic of Central Park,
Poetic, artistic, romantic, trees and sky liners Central Park the gates of heaven in clear view,
It’s heavenly yet powerful; Poets dreams Cristal, Ruby, Diamond, Sapphire Pearl or gold or just chilling its tares amongst the weeds Strolling or experiencing it’s where lovers meet; Colorful hot air balloons circle the park
Bollywood again and again after dark