Saturday morning Roseau Market the air feels lightfresh cleanhot the river flowing
unhindered to cool waiting sea. Birds hover then divedown peckingup thrownout
food. After years of being an immigrant I am now living backhome renavigating
rediscovering reconnecting still familiar childhood terrain. I feel threaded into the madras
of my country of birth but know I am viewed as materially apart—English—Diasporic—Different.
All around me is freeflowing meeting greeting chitchatting easycommuning and communicating.
People mixmingle flit and flutter from fresh produce overflowing stall to stall.
A hummingbird choreography of commotion conversation transaction.
The man in front buys his produce from the elderly female huckster. They seem to know
each other well exchanging smiles and laughs and asking about the wellbeing of soandso.
My turn. I smile. Politely ask the price of a hand of carrots. Her face goes blank. No smile back.
Hi, how much for the carrots please?
What you say? I not understanding you!
I repeat. The carrots. How much? I smile.
The young woman behind positions her body in front of me and picks up what she wants.
The interaction is quick pricesgiven moneytaken and she is gone.
I smile. I repeat. Slowly. The carrots. How much?
$10!
$10? $10?
The price is double what the young woman paid. But: I hand over the note. Pay what is asked.
She takes the money silently. Our hands do not makecontact. Our eyes do not makecontact.
I am learning the gaping memoryal cost
of being away for so long—but I’ll be back
next week. Being backhome is priceless.
Others dare to navigate; return; go back
even further, trying to recover a pasthome.