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Grandfather. Father. What is the difference? As we can only boldly speak from experience, I will draw out my memories like a long-overdue exhale. Black blue skin, stubble, authoritative yet foreign voice, comforting words, coarse and hard-working hands. Many things made my grandfather the man he was and still lives on to be in my memory, which has now become his sanctuary. Most clear are mornings in St.Lucia, his first love, and home, the place that chiselled and honed him into the man he was. We would sit on the balcony playing with homemade instruments and toys, creating a soundtrack to not only the backdrop of swaying palm trees and inner-city life but my childhood. Humidity, the juice of freshly bitten mangoes and mosquito bullets would silently kiss our tanned legs and arms and shoulders. Another crystal clear memoir was diving into the Caribbean sea at Anse La Raye, looking up through strained eyes into the light streamed seawater as I tried to swim to the surface after being thrown in by him, saltwater sticking my eyelashes together and pricking the tip of my tongue and lips. He and the Caribbean sea were always there, throwing me into the great unknown but most importantly, never intending or allowing me to fall entirely. He encouraged "experience" and "life", a man who himself had lived a complex and layered one, all the while never being more than two steps behind with open arms, advice or quite simply, "it's going to be okay". The wind beneath my wings, providing a metaphorical bird box for when times got a little difficult and I needed shelter or a pick me up. I cheersed with him on the day I graduated and cheersed in memory of him when I had a low spell last year. Between every mispronounced English word, homemade slice of Caribbean cuisine, barefoot cross-legged discussion and eyebrow raise, he was and remains, my hero. Black blue skin, stubble, authoritative yet foreign voice, comforting words, coarse and hard-working hands. My father’s voice was foreign because it would change depending on where and who he was around. Unauthentic and vapid like plagiarism. I remember enjoying long and bumpy drives with him across the lush landscape to the outskirts of St.Lucia where there were no street-lights, night time was night time and one single road wound up into the flourishing and dynamic rainforest. I enjoyed these rides so much that I’d wait excitedly on the porch for my father to collect me every other weekend to do it all over again. Then being told that he wasn't coming and feeling the pressure build like a balloon that's been blown up so much.. it pops. Exhilaration, anticipation, disappointment, POP. Being sat with him on the beach watching hues of blue softly roll into and under each other. Back and forth and under and over. Hermit crabs scurrying to and fro and feeling the sand push between my clenched fist. I was always excited to share an overview of interactions I'd had at school and how amazing it was that it had rained and we got to paint and use the special ink pens. My incandescent babbling was received with a hurried hush and point to the big blue. In his way, he too was encouraging me to experience life but differently. Be prepared for life not to go the way that you anticipated, people will let you down but you will recover because you're strong. Take the time to bask in silence and presently absorb your journey because we get one shot at this life thing. Between every late arrival, empty promise and silent conversation, he is my father.