Like most life changing events, it all started with the most important question "When?" Seventeen years away left an aperture deep within the core of my being. Over time anxiety and depression would come in waves as I mourned the "loss". As if an irreplaceable part of me was aggressively taken away, not knowing if it lived but knowing even if realized, it was certainly out of reach. My heart would cry out in earnest for the day when her sumptuous gifts would once again fill my stomach and satisfy me, when her warm waters would lovingly rock me like a nurturer lulling a baby into stupor. To once again glance upon loved ones who over time seemingly morphed into possible figments of my imagination. I yearned to feel, to be, to belong. This realization of the now was captured in a breath of fresh but humid air; warm and sticky, with curious excitement to experience something to which I was tethered, without full comprehension of why. The moment one ventured through the cabin door, Bob Marley's " Dont Worry " plays somehere off in the distance, or possibly a passing tune wired into the back of my mind. Blaring out like a theme song from a scene in my lifetime. Theres no doubt that this was home away from home, a getaway, a reunion and a haitius wrapped in a perfect little package, with promises, hope, joy and even fear. Jamaica land I love has always been my hearts song, and within hours of arriving, I instantly remembered why. She was so much more than what met the eye, her aura poignant to those who took time to notice, but most importantly within the ebbs and flow of her white sands, lush vegetation and spirit of the people, the cool breeze whispered "free" Downtown Kingston was loud, and seemed to be thriving off its own onus. A hive of activity buzzing with hope and ingenuity that essentially turned ideas into currency. Brightly painted hand carts, adorned with lights, and fitted with horns fit for a heavy goods vehicle, weaved through the hustle and bustle of pedestrians overcrowding the street, only narrowly avoided by expert drivers. Walking through Coronation Market, a cross section of ages, genders and everything in between were like brokers on wall street inspired to buy or sell stocks driven by demand and tinged with desperation. My alienness was seemingly obvious to vendors either through my slight accent, or fascination with produce that were for them the norm. "Ms British" seeming to replace my name at every enquiry about something from the plethora of colours of fresh fruits and vegetables. Annette my host displayed proficiency navigating the many tarpaulin-lined walkways, mazelike, left, right then right again all in a matter of minutes and without a second thought. Her determination to get what I most desired the minute I disembarked from the airport was matched with the thirst in my body longing to be quenched. After what seemed like a day in the maze, Annette, somewhat triumphant, enthusiastically motioned to coconut vendor or what sounded like "coatnat man" when spoken with the Jamaican dialect patios, which is essentially broken English. Instantly a smile spread across my face, this was what I was waiting for. We walked up to the vendor, a tall mahogany of a man, vigorously slinging his machete in order to complete the orders of his thirsty customers. His forehead seemed to sparkle as beads of sweat formed along his hairline. As we made eye contact he grinned, possibly mirroring the joy displayed on face. "Two?", he enquired, Annette responded with a firm nod. Three expert swings of the blade removed sheaths of the hard green exocarp, revealing the peachy-cream coloured endocarp. One final horizontal swing across the created protrusion, the top went flying unto the pile of discarded coconut shells. The clear liquid splash over his fingers and dripped down to his wrist. Anticipation had built up, there was no doubt about that, and as I held the solid, almost oval drupe, I salivated. The cool, sweet clear liquid hit the back of my throat like a tsunami rushing onto the dry parched shore.