Home Is Wherever My Family Is

After a much-needed break in Miami, I felt especially grateful that my youngest daughter had come with me. She is fifteen, and this trip gave her something I will always be thankful for: the chance to meet her grandmother for the first time.

She also met my sisters, my brother, and other family members, many of them for the first time. Watching those introductions happen in person meant a lot to me. It felt like two parts of my life were finally sitting in the same room together.

We sometimes video chat, and I am grateful for that because it keeps us connected despite the distance. Still, nothing quite compares to hugging someone in person. A screen can carry a voice and a smile, but a real hug has its own warmth.

I was glad she accompanied me on that visit. There was something beautiful about arriving there with her beside me, knowing she was stepping into a part of our family story that had lived mostly in memory and conversation.

I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I was actually there, standing in that thick Miami heat, surrounded by people I had missed for far too long. So many years had slipped by quietly. Twenty-seven winters had come and gone since I had last spent real time with the hands that once held mine and the voices that shaped my earliest memories back in St. Lucia.

And yet, once I arrived, something about it all felt familiar. The palm trees, the warm air, and the smell of rain and salt drifting through the porch all had a way of making me feel as if I had not been gone as long as I had.

The kitchen table became the heart of the visit, where the real reconnecting happened. My sister’s cooking felt like hugs and kisses from the past, full of the St. Lucian flavours I had missed so much during long Canadian winters.

Every plate brought something back to me: the savoury smell of well-seasoned meat simmering low, the steam rising from the pot, the bright herbs and spices filling the kitchen, and those little memories I had not even known I was still carrying. My sister and my mom made Bouyon for me, and that alone felt special. I had been craving that soup in Canada for so long. I had tried making it myself, but no matter what I did, it never tasted quite like home.

In St. Lucia, Bouyon is real comfort food, the hearty soup people make on weekends, rainy days, or when family is gathered and nobody is in a rush. It is thick and filling, with pieces of meat, ground provisions, green bananas, pumpkin, and fresh herbs all coming together in one pot. There is something rustic and honest about it, and it carries our Creole roots in every spoonful. As we ate, laughed, and told stories around the table, I was reminded again that food is never just food. Sometimes it is love, memory, and belonging, served warm.

The laughter came easily, too, along with music and cold drinks sweating on the table. It felt natural, almost as if the joy had been waiting for me to return so it could pick up where it had left off.

We talked the way families do when distance has stretched the years between them. Slowly, gently, then very loud, one story at a time. My sisters remembered childhood moments I had tucked away. Of course, I had my own perspective as the firstborn of seven. My mom filled in details I had forgotten. The afternoons passed softly, and I found myself listening more closely than usual.

Somewhere in the middle of all that easy conversation, I confidently made a mistake that deserved its own drumroll. With my whole chest, I called Miami the capital of Florida.

There was a pause, the kind families give you when they are deciding whether to correct you or enjoy the moment first. My sister chose both.

“Miami?” she said, laughing. “Girl, Tallahassee is the capital. Miami is just out here acting like it is.”

Everyone laughed, and honestly, I had to laugh too. I said it with such confidence that, for one brief second, I almost expected Florida itself to back me up; laugh out loud!

I later learned that Tallahassee is quieter and farther inland, shaded by old oaks rather than palm trees. Meanwhile, Miami was doing what it does best, stealing the spotlight without even asking.

My mistake made sense to me, though. Miami had always seemed larger than life in my mind: bright, busy, full of movement, and constantly talked about. It felt like a capital because it carried that kind of energy, the kind that walks into a room before you do.

But the correction did not embarrass me. It simply became another small thing I was relearning about Florida, my family, and the roots that stretch from St. Lucia’s shores to Miami’s warm doorstep.

One day, as we drew closer to returning to Canada and the sun dipped lower, something settled in me. I felt a deep sense of belonging. Not the loud kind, but the quiet kind that reminds you that even after years away, the thread between family members does not break. Sometimes it waits patiently for you to find your way back.

In that moment, I also understood why they had chosen Miami. With its endless summer and forgiving warmth, it seemed like a wise choice. The thought of returning to my short Canadian summer, and the cold that waits not far behind it, made me appreciate their decision even more.

Until my next trip south, I will carry that warmth with me. Not just the sunshine, but the feeling of being known, welcomed, and loved. No matter how many years pass, I think home finds us again. And for me, home is wherever my family is. 🏠

🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆

Thank you, dear reader. I will continue to edit from my journals and post what the Spirit leads me to post. Remember, keeping it real is what it’s all about.💛