Personal Narrative

The darkness creeps through my curtains. Cool morning air laced with cinnamon and chocolate flow from the kitchen into my bedroom, and I can feel the seasons change as excitement for autumn wells inside me. The crisp morning mist coupled with the Ackee tree in my yard that sways in the tropical breeze wrap around me like a mother's hug, making me feel safe and loved. I love September, it's always been my favorite month.

     In Jamaica, when September rolled around, my family would rush into the stores, newly decorated with their back-to-school advertisements.I beamed with delight as I bounced through the aisle holding my mother's hand counting down the remaining days. 

     “Finally”, was the only thought in my head as my father gave me butterfly kisses and told me to have an amazing day, a tradition I looked forward to every morning. Weeks of counting down the days had ended and I would finally see my friends. Walking into school with my newly made uniform,their smiling faces greeted me. We began exchanging stories of summer adventures, odd relatives, and “foreign” from those fortunate enough to have traveled to the land of “dudes” and “awesome,” the land where the annual flock of tourists hailed from.

September 2009 brought a new chapter in my life; I learned that in a few weeks I would be moving to “foreign.” There would be no more stories of summer, no more of my friends, no more butterfly kisses from my father, and I would be surrounded by tourists.

September second was my last day in my home, my last day feeling the warm, salty air course through my hair, refreshing my skin, and the last day my accent wouldn’t stick

out.

       The next day I was thrown into the new world of Port St. Lucie, Florida. I was stared at and bombarded with questions about my internet speed and the lack of locks in my hair. The constant crowding and picking at my differences caused my first anxiety attack; but eventually, the excitement of the new Jamaican girl along with my anxiety became background noise.

         By September of 2013, I no longer felt like the new girl. I found my place among friends with the awkward phases of middle school behind me. My Jamaican September memories were distant, looking back only when my roots felt loose. American Septembers, where leaves change and the sky darkens quickly, became my life, and I began to love it. Then, on September 17, 2013, I came home to my mother sitting on the staircase with tears in her eyes, “Mommy? What’s wrong Mum?"  my heart in my throat and the familiar taste of anxiety that plagued me over the years filled my mouth again.              

   That was the day my father had his first of many strokes, the day I knew my relationship with my father would change forever. He began to look at me with glazed eyes as if I were a painting, his brain working hard to place me. I began calling him daily in hopes of preserving our memories; ultimately, we began to create new ones: laughing while we planned our visits, sharing stories of my friends, and the love I’d found with a girl. Eventually, he became a part of my favorite September memories, always there for me in a space of stable senility.

    This September, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He no longer remembers my name or many of our memories, but I see September in my father. I see the autumn changes like his big brown eyes change when he remembers me, filled once more with color and warmth. September’s cool mornings, warm afternoons, smiles, and tears have caused me to grow, to love the details, and to appreciate everyone and everything in my life. Through uncertainties one thing will remain true: September will always be my favorite month.