One of the events in my life that sticks with me from my childhood was the day I was locked out.

I was 6 years old.

My father was probably at his office.

My mother worked long days at the hospital and teaching nursing.

My brother was in high school.

We had an older lady, “Miss Rose” who was for want of better terms, our housekeeper and my caretaker.

The infant school I attended was directly behind our home, and every afternoon at 12 pm I would walk to a gate that separated the two properties and shout “Miss Rose! Miss Rose!” and she would come and open the gate and I would be with her as I ate my lunch and played for an hour.

One afternoon, I went to the gate and shouted. No one came. In the midday sun, my little 6 year old self stayed there shouting and shouting and waiting. I distinctly remember that I did not cry. It never crossed my mind to return to the school. I waited and waited.

Now I lived on a street which faced the Caribbean Sea and immediately in front of my home, with a house that to my infant mind was half built on the water, lived an English family. I did not know them very well, but I guess they saw me and took pity. They lifted me over the fence, took me into their home and fed me enchilades (mm! I miss Belizean/Spanish food). 

It turned out Miss Rose had left my home because an old man she cared for had fallen down at her home and hurt himself quite badly. I distinctly remember my parents not being too impressed with what had happened. I must say though that they are amazingly understanding and caring people. I remember feeling quite badly for Miss Rose, even though the discipline she practised was ‘old school’ and nothing like my parents. 

Not long after that we prepared to move to the United Kingdom. The time is a bit of a blur for me, I remember barrels, my 7th birthday party, summer in New York and Miss Rose dying. 

For some reason her spirit visited me tonight.

In the UK, there was a family that attended the same church that I did. It was a mother, a father, and a daughter, Elizabeth. She was about 19 years old. Elizabeth had cancer. My 7 year old self had no understanding of the illness. I just knew that Elizabeth was sick and kept getting sicker and sicker. This family lived 10 minutes from me, and on the very same street. I clearly remember that they had a huge video collection (no dvds in the 90s *smile*) and every now and then, sort of like our trips to Blockbuster, my father and I would take a stroll to their home and borrow different videos.

One summer evening they told me they had a surprise for me. We went out to their garden and their was a pale blue, old fashioned folding-bike that had belonged to Elizabeth. Having left my own bicycle in Belize, I was overjoyed. I did not immediately realise that the bike was a little old fashioned. 

That Christmas when all of my friends got new bikes, I started to pay closer attention to mine. It looked something like this, but  older. Notice the joint where the bike folds in half:

I was still fond of my bike and when I rode it to the park and the other kids would laugh, I remember still riding it proudly home. Then the next Christmas my parents bought me a brand new fancy bike. I’m not even sure what happened to Elizabeth’s little pale blue bike. Elizabeth died later that year I believe, very shortly after getting married to her high school love. She was younger than I am now. 

Her spirit visited me tonight.

I’m not sure why Miss Rose and Elizabeth have decided to cause me to remember them, but by writing down these memories, I hope to never forget.