Just above the city of Maggoty, in the parish of Saint Elizabeth, on the island of Jamaica, sits a hill. Placed together (never at the same time) are a number of homes crawling up the hillside. At the top of that hill is the home in which my two little cousins, both girls, grew up. This is the view from their front yard on the evening that we buried their father, my uncle. This is the first time that week that the entire family took a collective sigh of relief. Not because things had settled or we had forgot the occasion for our brief reunion, but simply because at some point you can see the promise of blue skies if only in the distance.

To the right, falling off the scene is a huddle of children surrounding the neighborhood ice cream man, or boy, I never took time to find on which side he fell. He was at oldest a young man, on a bike with a 5 gallon bucket of ice cream.

How lovely, the idea of children from the hillside shedding their suits and dusty hard shoes. Barefoot, eating ice cream, haven spent the early hours of the day drenched in the grief of the adults around them. That kind of normalcy that salves change.

To the left, a patch of blue sky below grey clouds.