On a trip within Jamaica the heat got to me and so I searched for a good cup of tea.
I ventured off a busy street into a tea-room, which was a very crowded supply store with one table and chair hidden among unopened boxes stacked ceiling-high and placed my order.
I got more than I bargained for, much more.
With the little steel tea-pot and good china placed before me, I thought of my parents’ home
Then, lifting the lid of the little milk jug to see why it poured so slowly, I discovered it was sweetened condensed milk. Having not had sweetened condensed milk, with tea, for many years, in fact, not since I was a child, I was ecstatic.
Sipping tea in Jamaica I could taste and feel my parent’s home.
With the warm cup in both hands I was transported to my childhood bed, my back propped against the wooden headboard. My head flooded with minute details, and, as I smelled and tasted the tea I was once again a child.
For brief moments I was not an adult exploring the beautiful Jamaica but a child home from school, sipping tea in the privacy of his South African boyhood bedroom.
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