Portmore Promise
"Returning to Jamaica after his mother's passing, musician Damian reconnects with childhood neighbor Camille—and discovers that first crushes sometimes become forever love."
The Portmore house felt empty without his mother. Damian sat on the veranda, hollow.
"Yuh actually came back."
Camille. Thick and beautiful, standing at the gate like she had twenty years ago.
"Mi mother—"
"I know. Mi was at the funeral. Yuh didn't see mi."
"I didn't see anything."
"Come. Mi make yuh dinner. Yuh look like yuh haven't eaten in days."
She fed him the foods of childhood. Ackee, saltfish, green banana. His mother's recipes, somehow in Camille's hands.
"She taught mi," Camille explained. "When yuh left, she said yuh would come back. Said to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
"For yuh. For whatever yuh needed."
"What if I need everything?"
Everything started that night. Grief transformed to gratitude, to desire, to her thick body in his arms.
"Mi waited so long," she whispered.
"I didn't know—"
"Yuh know now." She kissed him. "Stay. Stay in Portmore. Stay with mi."
"Yes! Damian! Right there!"
In his mother's house, making it their own, the promise of childhood finally fulfilled.
"Don't stop! This is home!"
His mother's funeral became his rebirth. Music flowed again. Albums materialized. All inspired by Camille.
"Yuh muse," journalists said.
"Mi everything," he corrected.
The Portmore house is full again. Music and love and the promise his mother always knew.
"She knew," Camille says.
"Mothers always know."
Portmore promise.
Kept.
Forever.