Closing this book on Florida was difficult. Just as I was getting accustomed to the sun and the sand and the heat, I was flown back to upstate New York, where temperatures hovered well below freezing. It was jarring, and entirely unwelcome, but you always have to go home, whether you like it or not. On my last night, I stood on the balcony, remembering the first night I arrived. A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the palm trees, and this lovely night wind whispered of salty sea caps, boldly-colored bougainvillea, and ocean debris waiting to be discovered by excited beach-goers.
The sadness of it being my last night in such beauty is coupled with a fullness not felt on the first night when it was still brand new. It’s strange, and wonderful, how malleable we can be, especially when we need to be, and I will bring back a little of this lesson for the days to come. Right then though I don’t need it. I only need to stretch out my arms into the balmy night, look upward to the moon, and make the memory that will see me through another winter.
