In the kitchen I opened the small fridge and remembered the Westinghouse my mother had in the garage for odds and ends. Beer, oxtails, pig trotters,  liver, tripe, tongue. I grabbed the water jug and poured. The water splashed on the linen tablecloth.  A huge blot presented itself. Linen. Why did Mel put on a linen tablecloth? The white faux cloth with the plactic lining would have been okay with me.

Being Mel was difficult.  She wanted to please me, and yet there wasnt a single toothpick in the cottage. How displeasing is that? Unladylike she said, to have a toothpick dangling from your mouth 24/7. “heck,  Aunt Mel, whose mouth? Who cares, its not as if I am outdoors with it” No use. No toothpicks in this cottage in the deep woods of St. Elizabeth.

Thankfully, every bag and container that I posses always have an abundant supply of toothpicks of all types. Wood, plastic, silk, rubber etc. I took one from my pyjama pocket and popped it in my mouth and picked furiously. I chewed on the pick, pacing around, pondering the dream. The small cottage was awake. The thing with cottages is that they are alive. Fifteen minutes after you enter one it awakens to your presence and involves itself in your life. I paced around; I felt the eyes assessing me. Then it addressed me,

“Rhys, Rhys”. It said my name like the Irish would. The soft brogue thrilled over the letters R and Y and landed on the S so tenderly.  The cottage was about to tell me something.

“Tomorrow morning instead of looking through the window, you should go outside and look back at the miracle of the colors of the Crotons adorning my frame. Look at my zinc roof that so many showers have pounded and thrilled on, as they tried to erode my paint. Rhys, do you know how long I have stood here waiting for you to come back? Rhys, you took your first breath here on that very bed. Your mother was so fragile and frightened. Your father paced outside in the nearby bushes nervously plucking the leaves form the shrubs. They were so relieved when he ran inside to see you. The shrubs complained bitterly afterwards. “dam madman”, they had said in leafy chorus, and rustled furiously as they assessed the damage.

Coming down the birth canal, you felt trapped, you had to get born, you struggled and kicked your way out and screamed vigorously while your poor dear mother fainted with relief. Welcome home Rhys. Look at me, I am your haven.” 

I watched the sun come up through the small window in the small bedroom.  The birds chirped so loudly and tried to bash themselves on the window panes. I opened the window so they coud land. The cool sweet morning air rolled inside in a mist- like form. I chilled, and hugged myself.

The smell of burning pimento wood mingled with morning air, and the salt of the ocean. It was like a thousand aphrodasiacs of Cuban cigars and marijuana joints. Nothing is as potent as  waking up in the bushes in a little cottage with one window framed by Croton and overhung with Poncianna trees.  My orgasm was endless. Nature is the best medicine.