The landscape holds the deafening density of memory. The needles of each slash pine burst with the recollection of some childhood experience just on the edge of my mind. Each oak limb twists in the shape of a person long forgotten, whose name I would only recall if someone reminded me. It’s as if the trees and Florida air are storing the memories for me. They are my Giver, coddling reminiscences in case some day I might want them. I’ve seen them all before. Every sabal palm, every old oak, every casaurina. I’ve left pieces of myself in the sap of each tree. They whisper a promise to hold it, to free me, to lighten my load. It is only in this way that I am able to travel. In leaving behind the teenage worries and prepubescent fears, there is room for Thai macaques and Czech bridges. But they are not lost. The Spanish moss dangles with the whispers of elementary school friends. Mistletoe glistens with stolen first kisses. Pepper trees play melodies I know I’ve heard before. Even the formations of clouds seem to materialize into shapes that I’ve seen, in the same sunset, over twenty years ago.
This made me cry. I grew up in Florida too, but am now living in NH. I miss the sun, sand, ocean, palm trees and Florida pines so much, but I still have elsewhere to go.
Love it in Florida : )