Home

I once lived in a yellow little house.

Each morning, birds convened and sang at my bedroom window. The gate was indigo and inside the garden all kinds of flowers rose to kiss the sunny walls. The yellow nest was filled with cherished books, colourful art and sweet peace.

There was a little kitchen, with cherry-red cabinets made by the most business-savvy street artisan I have ever met. In the little kitchen, my daughters and I baked, giggled, danced and let our free-range souls be. Looking down on us was a Gael Faye poster, cooking books from across the globe (including delicious Caribbean recipes by Maya Angelou), my daughters’ early drawings, vintage photographs. And music.

Always music.

On the yellow porch sat a white high table where I would often pretend to write. Most of the time I simply soaked