Sable Monroe

In less than two weeks, I will set foot in Jamaica for the first time in almost forty years.
That sentence still feels strange to write.
Logically, I know Jamaica has changed. Air Jamaica is gone. New roads have been built. Children have grown up and become grandparents. Entire neighborhoods have changed. Some of the people I knew are no longer alive.
I know all of that.
But my memory did not get the memo.
My memory is still frozen in 1989.
When I think of Jamaica, I do not think about resorts or tourism campaigns. I think about little kid things.
I think about being sent to the shop with instructions and returning with whatever change I had left. I think about standing in front of glass counters full of candy and trying to decide what was worth spending my precious coins on.
I think about Suck-Suck.
Not the store-bought frozen treats. The real thing. The frozen bag juice tied in a knot at the top. Bite off the corner and suck out the melting syrup.
I always wanted the red one.
Sometimes people sold them right from their gate. No storefront. No business license. Just a freezer and a child with excellent taste in frozen beverages.
If they made them with Kool-Aid, I wasn’t interested.
If they made them with strawberry syrup, now we were talking.
To this day, I still remember the taste.
In fact, I remember liking Suck-Suck more than Kisco. My mother would buy Kisco and keep them in the freezer, and I was only allowed one a day.
One.
As if that was a reasonable policy for a child running around in Jamaican heat.
Looking back, I realize my parents never fully understood me.
To be fair, I didn’t understand me either.
Today I know I’m neurodivergent. Back then I was just the child with strong opinions about texture.
I didn’t like spice bun because of the fruit.
I didn’t want little surprises hidden inside my food.
I didn’t want chunks.
I didn’t want things sticking out.
I wanted smooth.
I liked plain bun and cheese. I tolerated raisins. Everything else was suspicious.
The funny thing is that nothing about me has changed.
I still don’t want random things sticking out of my pastries.
I still prefer predictable textures.
The software was already installed. I just didn’t know it yet.
That’s what this trip feels like.
Not a vacation.
A software update.
For almost forty years, my Jamaica has remained exactly the same.
The same schools.
The same streets.
The same markets.
The same flavors.
The same memories.
Meanwhile, the actual country kept moving forward without me.
In a few days, those two versions are going to collide.
The Jamaica in my head.
And the Jamaica that exists today.
I don’t know what that will feel like.
Maybe exciting.
Maybe overwhelming.
Probably both.
What I do know is that somewhere in Montego Bay, if I find a red Suck-Suck, I’m buying it.
This time I won’t have to choose between the Suck-Suck and the bus fare home.
That’s one childhood problem I’ve finally outgrown.