There’s a small condo complex in Florida that me and the wife have rented multiple times over the years. It’s on small island far from a large bustling tourist spot on a white sand beach with clear blue water. The beach is never crowded just a series of families, typically multiple generations, each claiming their “spot” as soon as they arrive with an umbrella or canopy and a few beach chairs or toys. The nice thing about such a quiet place is that you don’t have to pack up your things each day, you just stake your claim and trust the way. The unspoken agreement between all that your space and items are safe. It’s a great place to visit very calm and relaxing, the days seem to pass slower as if the slow rolling waves control the passing of time. As beautiful as it feels I also know it’s not a place I would ever want to live.

Several years ago this island was hit by a hurricane and it leveled the majority of the houses and building in its path. The storm battered the island changing its very foundation, new dunes were formed and the one main road was buried beneath the white sand. It’s been rebuilt over the years but Mother Nature gives no guarantees against another unwelcome visit. There are no groceries stores or strip malls, no mechanics or hospitals none of the main businesses I’m accustomed to having quick access to. It has 2 restaurants, a fishing pier and a small beach rental shop that doubles as a sno-cone stand. There is only one way onto the island and it’s a long bridge that spans the bay. It’s a 2 lane paved road who’s shoulder doubles as a nesting area for local birds. The speed limit on the road is slow for the protection of the nursery. It also forces those who enter or leave to soak in the experience of their arrival and departure of the oasis. I’ve been deep in my head lately and I brought to me the memories of the island.

I’ve been visiting my mind looking through old memories, dusting out the cob webs and opening up the curtains, bringing light to the rooms that are typically left in darkness. I’ve placed myself on a worn out recliner with my great grandmothers hand maid quilt, stretched out, playing the old 33’s I found in a box on a vintage record player that still surprisingly has a needle. I close my eyes as the memories dance accompanied by the music like a well planned soundtrack. The flickering images from an 8mm reel and a few old VCR tapes on an endless loop in random order of my life. Time seems to pass slowly as if the lack of breeze in the dusty old space controls the hands of time. Sometimes It’s nice here.

But as with the island, I cannot live here. With each passing day I feel myself disconnecting, a storm is building. Years ago I over stayed my welcome and experienced a storm, it leveled my very foundation. It changed the very landscape of the layout and buried the only entrance with years of shame, secrets and lies. I had to dig my way out. It’s risky to stay to long and human nature gives no guarantees against another unwelcome visit. It’s lacking some of the amenities I’m used to having on hand like human interaction, conversation, physical touch and the ability to truly feel the present. So it’s time I pack up and head home for now. I’ll pack a few mementos that I forgot I had. That old Bob Dylan record I almost wore out and the memory of learning to tie my shoes complete with the unresolved loneliness attached to it. I’ll close the curtains and lock the door and make my way to the 2 lane road. I’ll walk slowly not to disturb the sleeping giants on the shoulder and to soak in the experience of my timely departure. I’ll be back again to visit, I always return to check up on the place. Sometimes out of desire for an escape and others just to dig for something I feel like I lost and need but don’t remember what. It’s a nice place to visit, for the most part, but it’s truly no place to live.