River Sing Me Home

by Eleanor Shearer

With the sea spread out in front of her, she felt small in a different way—not small in herself but a small part of everything that surrounded her. Immersed in the infinite sea.

“I hope you find them, Rachel. I hope you find them all.”

“I do not mind feeling small. I do not need reminding that I am Nobody—as are we all.”

Rachel had always been confused by the lengths to which white men would go for the sake of possession.

There were rivers with mouths as wide as the entire island of Barbados. There was the sea. There were weddings celebrated deep in the forest, away from the misery of the plantations, where love had a cooler, clearer quality to it—like mountain air.

“Me proud. Of what Micah do. He was always the bravest of us all.”

And yet, love did not wait. Love was there in the beginning—even before the beginning. Love needed no words, no introduction. Existence was enough.

“Micah,” she whispered. “Yes. A good name. Welcome, little Micah.”

This is how we are remembered. In snatches of song, in dreams, in the smile that passes between mother and child. These are the parts of us that cannot be destroyed. These are the parts of us that feed the roots, and keep them strong. The soil is fertile. Our tree grows on.

But to me, the Caribbean is beautiful because of its history, not in spite of it. A place where the past is always close to the surface, and echoes of history are everywhere.