76 West Street

76 West Street

The veranda had recently been given a facelift. The smell of the pine wood from which it was built was still fresh. My mother and her 8 siblings had long since left the old house. Only my grandparents and I now called it home. Butterflies did aerial dances atop the hibiscus flowers that stood at the entrance of the yard. The gentle breeze caressed my face through the unpainted wooden louvers; each spaced four inches apart from the other. At five years young, I was rather frail and short. Therefore, I wasn’t tall enough to look over the horizontal part of the porch’s frame as I would have liked.

My grandfather swung peacefully in his hammock from a lazy right to a lazy left. My inquisitive nature led to a barrage of questions which were met with fable styled answers from my wise old patriarch. I recall asking him why it rained so much the day prior. I expressed my displeasure for days like those because I was forced to stay within the confines of our small home. He looked down at his high spirited grandson and replied “Son, no rain come to stay.” He proceeded to sing the lyrics to a song that only he seemed to know. “I shall not die, I shall live forever. I shall not die. I shall live forever in this world.” My young mind wondered what he meant. The radio station was tuned to Love FM, a popular station for Sunday afternoons like these. Smooth jazz songs, which I would later come to love, played one after the other. The aroma of stew chicken seasoned with mild Jerk flavored spices, paprika, garlic powder, black pepper and adobo which all collaborated to form a symphony of deliciousness, floated from our small outdoor kitchen. My grandmother usually prepared delectable dishes. This was my favorite. I anxiously waited to hear “Kelbin, higab beiga” which in our Garifuna language meant “come and eat.” Kelbin was her mispronunciation of Kevin due to the fact that English wasn’t her first language. I awaited the priceless smile which always adorned her face.

My favorite song could now be heard from the old radio which I was told predated me. A lady sang passionately about a man playing piano in the dark. I would later research this song in my adult years and find that the singer was Brenda Russell, an American singer-songwriter and keyboardist known for her diverse musical style. I’m now 32 years old. “Piano in the dark” by Brenda Russell takes me back to that house that longer no exists; little fingers clutching the louvers of the veranda. It resurrects both my beloved grandparents. We are all back at the old house on 76 West Street, Toledo District, Belize Central America.