    I came back to Jamaica two weeks ago with the kind of foolish confidence you earn from distance, the belief that memory alone can protect the places you love. I thought I knew what I was walking into. You see enough disaster clips online, and you tell yourself you understand. I have lived many disaster-type situations trying to be a sojourner of black truth. But the thing about storms is that the camera always misses the part that hurts the most. The quiet. The smell. The stunned way people move, almost zombie-like, after the world rearranges itself. Before all this, my sense of home was stitched into small, ordinary things. Like the shortcut up Park Mountain. That path was never really meant for children, but we took it anyway, barefoot, slipping on mossy stones that had seen centuries of rain. I can still hear Aunt Vera shouting from her veranda, âMind dat stone by di mango tree!â She said it every time, even when I pretended I didnât hear her. The air up there always smelled of wet breadfruit leaves and fresh mud, the kind of scent that embodies itself in you whether you want it or not.