The actual plan and advice was to wait until I got married. But, since that was not happening - at least not fast enough for me - I decided to take things into my own hands. So here I am - on my own, in my own place, all alone… me one… me, myself and I.

No, I’m not lonely. Well, not all the time, mostly. I am however, alone. Here’s what’s great about living alone, especially where I live. It’s an unusually large one-bedroom, with kitchen, living/dining, large balcony, thick walls, walk-in closet, pool, well manicured landscaping, fully equipped laundry, more than adequate parking, and 24-hour security. Everyone that visits me says, “I love your place.” I love it too, and no, there are no more available on the complex, so don’t ask. I have this sofa bed, which I’ve had to will to my friend, Gail. I feel comfortable enough to keep my doors and windows open 24/7 which allows the continuous breeze to flow through. Fairy-taleish, huh? Now that you have a picture of where I live, other than all that, here’s some of why I love it:

I don’t have to say, “Good morning” to anybody, or “Goodnight” for that matter.

I don’t have to bathe if I don’t want to. You’ve been warned - you call before you come over.

I can buy whatever food I want, or not buy any, if I want. My fridge is famous for holding really cold water.

I’ve mastered cooking for one, or a pot of soup for five.

I can eat what I want, when I want, and how I want, without any questions or disapproving looks.

I get visitors.

I don’t have to answer the door or the phone.

I get to spy on everybody coming and going and make up salacious stories about the tenants and their guests.

I can live as cave-like as I want. Batgirl – that’s me!

I have my own bills. I am master of my own consumption.

I have the option of signing up for the XXX channel. (Mmmm, smile)

I got my own space. S-P-A-C-E. And you need my permission to get into it.

I like saying to my Mom and brothers, “Don’t you have a key?” (Ha! Ha! Ha! Snort)

But people, there is nothing like your Mama’s home! I should know. Besides my brother’s tough bed, the cat fur and smelly dogs, home is really a better place. At least my home, ‘cause where I live from day-to-day, I call that ‘my yaad’. But home is where the family always ends up. If that’s what you like.

Look it, at my home, I can walk around the yard, sometimes even get ticks and play dandy-shandy with what we call horse mosquitoes. I can smell cane burning and hear the fire cracking while I pray the sparks don’t fly over and catch the house ablaze. At my home, the police pass through just to check on us, especially when my Mom bakes. At my home, my Mom prays for me and kisses me on the forehead just before I leave to go out and sometimes just before I go to bed. She cooks my lunch and leaves it in the toaster oven and she even asks me, the dysfunctional fashion guru, what to wear. It’s a blast! Makes me feel so wanted and capable. There, we have every fruit tree necessary. I can pick plum, guava, and ackee and not fear I’m taking too much. There is enough land for the handy man to plant pumpkin now and sorrel for Christmas later.

Neighbours come by just to make sure we’re okay and to hang out and play scrabble or dominoes. Home is among a little community of families that look out for each other. At my home, Patches, my 12-year-old cat knows when it’s time to wake up. Whether you want or need to get up she’s telling you it is 6:00 a.m. and time to let her in so she can clean herself on your bed. When the moon is full, it lights up the entire area and when there is none, you can barely see your hand in front of your face. I get a kick out of driving without my headlights on those nights. (Note to self: you need to stop that).

The confusing thing, though, is that I only miss these things when I’m actually at home. Cause when I’m here at my yaad, I relish being here and almost dread going home. Weird, ain’t I?

I’ve been thinking – Home is truly where the heart lies. It just doesn’t want to lie on too hard a bed.