Last year, this time, I was in Jamaica for my grandfather’s funeral.
A few days ago when I heard Auntie Madge died, it broke me. Tears burned my eyes.
The night my hubby, sister, and I arrived at my grandfather’s house, there were over a thousand people lining the road. Hagglers, not mourners, were putting up tents made of tarps and preparing to stay for the duration of the funeral. They were building fires and cooking stew chicken, curry goat, and mannish water — goat head soup. Young men were rolling marijuana and the scent of it waded through the night air. Bright eyes and white teeth peered out from faces as dark as the night. We bore through the crowd — those who came to celebrate Papa’s life, and the spectators who came to critique, eat, and drink, as is customary at Jamaican nigh-nights.
With over thirteen children, eighty plus grandchildren and great grands, the house was overflowing. All the bedrooms and couches were claimed and there was no room at Papa and Mama’s house for us. Since the floor and roof were still available, my mother would disagree. “Wherever there’s family, there is always room.”
While the party raged on, I saw Auntie Madge gliding through the crowd, her gold teeth beaming. She invited us to her home and showed Chris and me to a room in the front. The following morning, the sun streaming through the curtain, woke us. We heard chatter and laughter and followed the sounds to an island gathering on the veranda. Auntie Madge’s husband pulled chairs from the inside and we sat, overlooking a luscious landscape.
I snapped a photo of the world before me: below, there were pink flowers, a winding red road that would later lead us to church for Papa’s funeral. To its right, goats roamed for their morning meal beneath mountains of green trees. Outside of my camera’s view, stood Auntie Madge’s rustic garden on a hill. The red earth was perfectly landscaped, like someone had swept the dirt. A small patch of rosemary led to the hibiscus, thyme and mint that was within our reach. Auntie Madge snipped several pieces of mint for our tea.
As we walked around her almost vertical garden, I leaned forward trying not to fall and roll down the hill. Above my head, young soursop and ackee trees bloomed, promising food for tomorrow. Large bunches of green and yellow plantains hung at arm’s length. The scent of sweet tangerines led the way and with a slight reach, the sun ripened fruits were in my hands. I picked at the flesh, and a burst of citrus sashayed up to my nose. My mouth salivated, yearning for the first peg.
Auntie Madge limped from pains in her feet. We walked behind her to the back of her house where a large step served as her outdoor kitchen. I was in awe. It seemed she had extra hours in her morning. Already, there was a spread of colorful foods prepared for the meal she would make for us. She had sliced breadfruit and plantain, chopped callaloo and diced tomatoes, onions and green peppers.
Auntie Madge gathered coal she had made and built a fire. She poured oil into the black cast- iron pan and added the tomatoes, onions, and peppers. They simmered slowly, releasing the aroma of delight. She bent and put some food on the ground for a cat swirling around her legs.
We sat on the veranda. We ate and sipped our mint tea. Auntie Madge told us stories we had not heard before, and when we told her ours, she looked at us with admiration. When we made a joke, she tilted her head and laughed out loud.
She was full of life then. Cooking for the ones she loved, sitting to eat and chat and linger a while. The morning we sat on her veranda together, she lingered for a long while. When I think of her sitting on the veranda where such fond memories were created, it’s difficult to think it was also the same place she was sitting when she said to her husband, “I’m not feeling well, I’m going inside to lie down.” Those were her last words and her last day, soaking in the island sun.
Be Well, Friends
Kadine Christie
