The Tin Roof

I wake up and its raining. Even before I look outside I know it. The sound of the rain against the tin roof washes over me and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. In that small space of time I am transported back to a childhood now long gone. I half expect to hear my great-grandmother humming to herself while she fixes us our morning breakfast of Farina. I can almost here her gently scolding her small dog Pucho who must have been following her around the kitchen. Or maybe it is Sunday and we'll be having fried eggs, ham and toast along with the Farina. In this small moment I know its only a matter of time before she wanders into where I am sleeping and rouse me from my half slumber to help her get breakfast on the table. Instead, it's the sound of the T.V. that pulls me from my moments of confusion. I am in a small white house with a tin roof, twenty years away from my memories. I can’t help but feel melancholy settling into my heart. I know that it is my duty alone now to rise before everyone else and get breakfast ready. There is no Pucho here, no dog to scold. I shuffle into the kitchen and make my preparations to cook. I scold the refrigerator for leaking water all over the floor, threatening to replace it. Farina has been replaced by grits, ham by bacon, but the eggs stay the same. The husband and the kids like their eggs scrambled with cheese, but I'll fry mine and season them with my nostalgia. I hum a ditty from my memory while I wash the dishes. My five year old comes in the sleep still in his eyes, "is it Sunday?" he asks me. His question makes me realize that despite the fact that my great-grandmother is long gone now I still keep her alive with my habits born from tradition. Despite the fact that I'm am thousands of miles from my family, I am and will always remain the island girl that they raised me to be.