Govia
They buried her in St. Paul’s next
to my Grandparents. It was a sad day
for all of us.
My aunt was the person who
raised me. She took her strong
hands when I was a baby, and
shaped this lump of clay into
what I became.
My aunt was a stern woman and
sometimes she was cruel…
Go tell her how much I love her.
She would not believe that love
could last past three decades. The
hands that molded this lump of
clay are now dust itself. It is
settled there in St. Paul’s where
breadfruit trees grow tall and
people are resilient.
Go tell her how much I love her.
The ghost of her being still walks
the streets of St. Paul’s. She
walks there with my father. He
was buried in the same plot of
earth next to our Grandparents.
Go tell my aunt how much I love
her. Tell her how far our name
has travelled. Tell her about the
millions of people between us…
Go tell my aunt I long to see her
face.
Go tell my aunt I love her.
Go tell my aunt I love her.
Tell my aunt I am still her
native son.
Tell my aunt that I long to see the
beautiful sunsets in St. Kitts.
Tell my aunt I miss New Street.
Tell my aunt I miss the lovely
beaches and the clear blue sea.
Tell my aunt I miss hearing the
bells ring at St. George’s Anglican
Church.
Tell her I miss cricket at Warner’s
Park, and soccer on Sunday
afternoon.
Tell her I miss the long treks up
Mt. Liamuiga, and the views of the
Caribbean from Brimstone Hill.
Tell my aunt I miss my people.
Go tell my aunt I love her.
2 responses so far ↓
christiana joseph // February 18, 2010 at 9:06 pm |
Govia that was a sad one. It made tears flow.
Francis Govia // February 18, 2010 at 11:22 pm |
It was sad for me too Christiana. Thanks for the feedback. I send my love.