In the quiet heart of Tortola’s botanical soul

where emerald leaves whisper secrets to the wind

and ponds hold their breath like old sages guarding forgotten truths

I stand still, watching tiny round leaves drift—little exiled worlds

floating on a mirrored surface that remembers everything

even the footsteps of ancestors now dissolved into soil

On the banks, life unravels in deliberate motion

ferns unfurl like hands in prayer

bougainvillea bursts in wild magenta

its blooms unapologetic, reckless

scattering themselves like memories too vivid to bury

The air is thick with inheritance

earthy, sweet, alive with rain-soaked roots

It carries the weight of sun-drenched days and salt-kissed breezes

whispering in a language only those born of this land can hear

But my children

they have never breathed it

never felt this island’s song pressed against their skin

never traced fingers along bark rough with time

never watched the sea flirt endlessly with the horizon

This place—my beginning—is their stranger

a paradise written in their blood yet absent from their memory

The island waits like a patient elder

holding stories in its palms

stories my children have yet to hear with their own hearts

The greens, the blues, the wild magenta fire

all of it a heritage they’ve yet to inherit

And I wonder

can a heart ever truly understand where it belongs

if its feet have never kissed the soil of its origin?