In Trinidad, for the first time since January 2020.

On a work call—this was a “working holiday”, as are they all, aren’t they—and I hear the accent of home, the inflection of family, so often subdued (suppressed?) in my own speech, assert itself anew. For a moment I am frozen by the incongruousness of it.

Where is home

Who am I when I am there

Who am I when I am not there

In Trinidad and hyper-aware of all the reasons why I’m not there (here) and all the reasons I’d like to be here (there) more often.

In Trinidad and already leaving, hyper-aware of all I cannot take with me.

Attribution

I was recording in St Anns and had one day free.
So I told my father I’d be back in December;
and he said, ‘December? No, I want to see
my son, Tony; we in August.’

Everything is symbolic in literature. The dust
at dry noon in Sam Boucaud, the small birds
within the emptiness of the cricket field. Heat
burning water into sound; tall jungle.

My father appeared through curtains, thin
with eyes that now saw past the limits of ours.
The impish swirl of his laughter was gone.
In the photographs I took that afternoon
he seemed to be leaning away, leaning as if
from life, from love, in shame.

— Shame II by Anthony Joseph in Sonnets for Albert