Fall, 1983

I woke up this morning to the smell of fried plantains and for a few minutes, I was seven years-old again.

The smell wafted from the kitchen around the corner to my room where I lay hoping Mom made cornmeal porridge. She was singing one of her favorite songs, Life Is Like a Mountain Railroad, as she dropped the plantain pieces in the sizzling grease.

I could hear Dad outside in the garage, sifting through his Craftsman tools, grumbling about losing yet another wrench.  At any second, he’d give up his search and come inside in his dark green jumpsuit, the one with the big grease stains and his name embroidered in yellow thread on the pocket.

Mom would scold him for not taking the dirty jumpsuit off at the door. He’d ignore her, take his plate and sit at the dining room table. She’d sigh and call out: “Fayola Shakes, rise and shine, sweetie. It’s time go get up.”

This morning, I woke up on my cousin’s couch. She was in the kitchen frying plantains. I ate an egg and spinach omlet for breakfast. And I realized it’s been seven years this month since I’ve seen my Dad.