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in the package

When I was young, my family had a tradition of going to the Caribbean. My parents escaped for a few weeks some winters to Trinidad-Tobago, leaving us with the grandparents and bringing back records of The Mighty Sparrow and steel drum music to play in our living room. One fateful winter, they took my brothers and I down to Puerto Rico for what would turn out to be our last outing as a family. The day we got back, they explained to us, in that same living room, that my dad was going to live elsewhere “to be closer to his work.” Even after that, my mother, as a single mom, managed to get us down to Saint-Martin/Sint Maarten and St. Croix. The year she died, my younger brother and I spent Christmas in Antigua, on the English side. And I continued to go to St. John through my twenties.

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