There are storms that pass through quickly — rain, wind, inconvenience — and then there are storms that sit with you. They linger. They make you listen. Hurricane Melissa was that kind of storm. Not just destructive, but unsettling in its intelligence. It gathered itself slowly, fed on warm water, stalled, strengthened, and then moved with intent. It didn’t rush. It chose its path. Black River felt it first. Westmoreland bore the brunt. Montego Bay watched it pass, knowing it had come close enough to remind us how thin the line really is.
Living through it wasn’t dramatic in a cinematic sense. It was quieter than that. More internal. The kind of fear that comes from waiting, from watching trees bend in ways they shouldn’t, from listening to roofs creak, from checking the same updates again and again while pretending you’re calm. It was the kind of fear that humbles you — because no amount of planning ever fully prepares you for nature when it decides to assert itself.
And yet, in the mi…
