Whenever I return to Nevis, my first stop is always the same — the home of my dear friend Iris. Her name, by coincidence, is the same as my mother’s, and her life has been no less remarkable. I met her as a boy of eleven, finding her in her garden, sunlight in her smile, soil on her hands. From that day on, her warmth and laughter became part of every visit.
For years I asked about her past, about the days she and my father shared in their youth. She would just smile, place her hand on my shoulder, and say,“Son… one day I’ll tell you everything.” That day has come…