"Are you a daughter of the Caribbean? Do you have a daughter of the Caribbean in your life? Can you smell the rum?"

 Jamaica is calling me again!

With bare feet I prance playfully through a sea of tall, mature grass that all but engulfs my slender, seven year old frame. In full motion, I stretch my arms outward and as my fingers fleetingly caress soft grass plumes, the warm Caribbean breeze clears a golden path before me. I’m on my grandmother’s estate in the small town of Portland Cottage, Jamaica.

A guava tree ahead bends gracefully with ripe fruit begging to be picked, as a doctor bird flutters merrily from fruit to fruit, relishing each aroma and flavor. Oh how I wish I could fly and savor, just like that fortuitous little creature.

And look at that display of purple “coolie plums” on the tree unveiling to my right. If my belly wasn’t protruding with brown stewed chicken and rice and peas from my grandmother’s kitchen, this smorgasbord of fresh tropical fruit would certainly be at my mercy. But alas, my eyes are bigger than my bowel.

After breezing by an array of other laden, fruit-bearing trees, I finally behold the ultimate prize…..a Bombay mango tree pleading for attention. It is a compelling sight; chock-full of mangoes ripened by the stunning Caribbean sun that now dozes in a westerly cradle, boasting hues of yellow, orange and purple.

Yearning for dessert I squat, then leap and grab a branch, pull myself up onto the trunk of the tree, and begin my greedy climb. I’m salivating while advancing towards the succulent reward that awaits me…a perfectly ripe, bright yellow mango with an orange glow on one side, just like this evening’s sunset. My lips smack with anticipation….it is a pearl in an ocean of fresh jewels. My left foot stumbles on a brittle tree branch. Close call; I anxiously grab a lush green branch above to save myself from obvious mutilation waiting below. I contain myself and continue the journey upwards.

Then ah, my right hand finally caresses the gem that’s been provoking my pallet. I perch myself contentedly on a sturdy branch and sink my teeth into that luscious feast. Then I bury my face into pure ecstasy and slurp for what felt like nirvana, coming up for air and ravenous chewing. Now my face is covered in an orange glow. Anything better than this must be the heaven that Parson Mitchell preaches about in church on Saturdays.

Bliss is crudely interrupted by a high-pitched shriek from Cookie, my grandmother’s maid.

“Miss Olivia, come down from that tree right now. You grandmother want you in the house and in the bath tub this very minute!”

I scamper down the tree of my delight and sprint home, knowing for sure that I’ll be back for more first thing tomorrow morning.