Mi nah tell nuh lie, I hold deep cherished thoughts of coming back to Jamaica sometime soon with, God forbid, surgically altered buns:-0, to sit in the sun and work on any beach where I can pick up WiFi. I promise, there is no retiring for me, if for no other reason than my embracing the school of thought that says; “If you are not “growing” you are dying.” I look forward to walking on clear piazzas in Kingston, May Pen, Ocho Rios and Montego Bay, without the obstruction of “informal merchants” while window shopping with an ice cream cone. I hold some deep hope and vision of organized markets with higglers off the ground and sitting on a high stool or comfortable chair with their wares or fares creatively exhibited, as they did in days past with their hamper basket atop their head. The market in Manor Park was somebody’s attempt at that. But consciousness never fail to smack me back to reality with a sharp reminder that I would be moving back to a beloved people who, on the average, are still stuck in vacuumed thoughts and who dare to believe that this insular way of thinking goes beyond the shores of the island. Landing in America to live brought on a paradigm shift of awesome proportion, especially as I watched the “snow birds” in Deerfield Beach; couples in their 80s and 90s out walking their dog, dripping in jewelry, or just taking a walk hand in hand.