I recall the tile floor like a pattern of past experience, empty shells of Kinder Surprise displayed on the kitchen rug that lay strewn about with the plastic, build-your-own dinosaur I received from within. These playthings are evocations to memories I’ve never witnessed, as tough as the limestone that the island is made of, and as fortified as the miniature seashells sitting in a glass bottle in my room. Hung-dry beach towels dangle on the terrace, and the laughter of an older man echoes from inside, the groan of the wooden front door resembling that of the sickness growing within him. I am home, and yet so far from it. I’m in the library of my mind, where each person is a book, pages torn and folded over, or as crisp and clean as wind that rattles the glass at the window. I can hear the ever-lapping waves of the Marina below, and the bells that ring in alarm for change to come.
- SL, 2023
