Gates

Gates

It’s said that a picture speaks a thousand words. A very true statement and to each his own thousand words. My good friend Donnette who resides in Jamaica, is a great photographer who captures what the eyes see, as well as what the heart feels, and this morning she posted a picture that had my heart bursting with words.

My childhood memories are mostly filled with the colors, smells and laughter of our beautiful island. This picture, taken of an old house with crumbling walls and iron gates pushes me back to the days of running around in the hot sun and gentle breezes with friends.

It reminds me of walking home from school, the houses holding mysteries we conjured up based on color, occupant, or gates. Gates suggested dogs, something as children we found highly entertaining; banging on the gates to get the dogs barking and chasing us along the fences, unable to chew us up and spit us out.

We had no fears. The gates of variable intricacies went from ornate to boring, and even though they stood between us and vicious dogs, they also symbolized home. The clang of the gate opening and shutting behind us meant we were safe. Once inside those gates, we felt the warmth and safety our parents worked so hard to provide.

There was the smell of food being prepared meeting us at the gate most days; curried chicken, rice and peas, oxtail, codfish, fried fish, coconut oil…the list goes on. All homes didn’t have this specific look or architecture, however it is reminiscent of bigger, older homes back in the 60’s and 70’s, with the wrap around verandas. Those zinc roofs with the sound of heavy rains pattering on them would fill the rooms with a sound that made us want to stay wrapped up in bed with a coloring book or a deck of cards.

This image with it’s worn woodwork and aged gate is a part of my childhood, our childhood. Days now lost to time but living in our memories and old homes, lazy rivers, tender breezes and rusted iron gates tumble out of this picture.

Photo by Donnette Ingrid Zacca

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