Some time has passed, but time is always relative to those
who behold it. My travels feel new and old, and maybe they are a bit of both.
I trace the outline of the United States – down down down
Florida’s east coast, to the very bottom, where that narrow expanse of keys
stretches. I bring the cold with me, the lowest temperatures Florida has seen
in twenty years. At first, I fume about my bad fortune, but it’s nothing
personal, nothing to do with me at all; I’m much too small for nature to plot
against or make her plans around.
The water is turquoise and sheer. With a sort of empathy, I
can feel it around me when I close my eyes. I watch pelicans hover in the air,
in one single space, and marvel at this wonder. Meditation goals, I think to myself. How I yearn to float like
that. What sort of freedom they must feel, to achieve that kind of balance.
Florida is crowded, but it still maintains a special kind of
wild. It is both utilitarian and feral, more jungle than forest. I spend hours
on its beaches, too cold to swim but warm enough to bask, and let both
nostalgia and buoyancy wash over me.
I tromp through all the trails and parks I can find, learn
the names of local trees and flowers I’ve never seen before. I breathe in humid
air and begin to get something of a tan. I draw birds and blossoms from park
benches. I visit the Everglades and hold an infant alligator, which is the
brightest highlight of this particular trip. More is always waiting.
This is still all so new, this blowing wherever it is the
wind takes me. Mostly the past is quiet, and the future hovers in the distance,
where it is supposed to be. My past life is just that: another life, a
different time lived in by a different person.
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