I spent countless childhood summers visiting my grandparents in Jamaica, waking up to the sound of roosters crowing and the salty smell of the sea. I lived in the UK for eleven months of every year but even as a young girl, it was this sunny island that felt like home. I would drink jelly coconuts with my Grandad until my stomach couldn’t take another sip and dance with him on the veranda with my sister, his gold tooth shining in the sun. September always came too quickly and with a heavy heart I would have to say goodbye to another idyllic summer.

When I was told that my Grandad had passed away last year, my heart broke at the thought of no more summers with him, no more dancing. I realised then that it wasn’t the island that felt like home, it was him. Travelling to Jamaica for the funeral with my extended family was bittersweet. It was the first time we had all been there together, but it was also the first time my Grandad was not at the airport to meet us, smiling whilst he waited for us at the arrival gate. Being in Jamaica made his death feel more real to me, especially in moments when funeral plans were being discussed or when we were sorting through his old clothes and collectibles. Staying in his house and experiencing the Island for the first time without his witty jokes and stories to make us laugh was incredibly hard. But the trip also gave me a sense of peace. I remembered all of the fun times we had shared together and how lucky I was to have known him, and to have had the opportunity to spend holidays there, making memories that I can tell my future children about.

I look back now on the time I spent with my Grandad and the love we shared with a full heart. I am forever grateful for every second we spent together, every coconut shared, every summer.

That is a love that time and distance could never break.